Danse Infernale
by Dante And Kodos
Summary: Fire is a great and terrible thing. So it turns out Fawkes isn't as good and light as Dumbledore thinks he is. Canon, Fawkes is Voldemort. Crack played as straight as possible. Tom-centric.
1. Prelude

**Edit 30/7/2015:** This was originally Dante's idea and Dante's project. However, she has apparently decided to abandon it for various reasons, the validity of which I won't comment on. I'll be (hopefully) finishing it for her, but since neither the idea nor project truly belong to me, I won't be rewriting this chapter to better match the style of the rest of the work.

This chapter can now be considered a prelude/prologue. The rest of the work will read more like a continuous, flowing story, that is, it won't consist of short snapshots of Tom's life. In terms of writing style, it will be similar to that of the first section below, titled "anathema," since I was the one who wrote that section.

About 20% or so of the next chapter, Part I, has been written and it should be up within a week.

~Kodos

* * *

 **Prelude**

 _ **anathema:**_ _ **a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction.**_

 _The orphanage; Tom, aged four_

He was, apparently, privileged to be in an orphanage and not out in the streets stealing bread and being a general menace to society.

Of course, the idea was always far from the reality.

The children pushed him and ignored him. For some reason, none of them liked him at all, even though he was certainly better-looking and smarter than that Amy girl, whom everyone flocked around and admired.

Not even the adults wanted him here. Four years old was a good age for adoption, better than five or six anyway. That's what careful observation had told him. But every day, he was passed over by scrutinizing eyes as he stood there in a line with the other children like a slave to be bought. The occasional doting mother looking for a little boy to smother with affection would approach him and pinch his cheeks but inevitably leave with a bubblier, happier charge, someone who everyone at the orphanage loved.

He had tried, before, to put on that façade, and he knew he was a good actor, but yet again, the adults fawned over him and then left with someone else.

No one wanted him.

* * *

 _ **hiraeth:**_ _ **a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was**_

 _The orphanage; Tom, aged six_

Tom irritably flicked through the book of fairy tales he had nicked from the library. He scoffed at the stories and their happily-ever-after endings with the scorn of one who desperately and secretly wanted.

And so he flipped through the stories and snorted in derision and his heart ached with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. It was all lies anyway; there were never happy endings for the little orphan boys.

He slashed at another page, turning it roughly; he heard the paper tear. A rare flash of shame forced him to inspect the rip.

His eye caught the line of text next to the tear.

" _He rose out of the cave like a phoenix out of ashes…"_

"Phoenix," he sounded out. It was a pretty word, he supposed. But it was from the stupid book of lies. Even more irritating was the fact that he didn't actually know what a phoenix was. Oh, it couldn't be important. Just a stupid word from a stupid story…

* * *

 _ **inferno: a large fire that is dangerously out of control; hell**_

 _The orphanage; Tom, aged eight_

 _During the Blitz_

Shouts rang out in the night as another bomb fell screaming down to London. The sky glowed a sickly orange like an image from hell. Tom stared out at the fires consuming the city with no emotion in his silver gaze though fear gnawed at his heart.

He was standing barefoot on the cold grey pavement outside the orphanage - a forced exile born of cruelty and superstition from his fellow orphans; endorsed by the orphanage staff.

 _Keep the freak outside, and maybe God will spare us. Leave the freak outside, and there will be no reason for the bomb to hit us._

His fists clenched as another bomb fell, terrifyingly close. A house a few blocks away burst into flames.

Tom watched the fire, unblinking, until when he closed his eyes, sparks danced in the darkness in front of him. A scream echoed from down the street. His eyes shot open but the image was blurry. Blurred light, all light, just light. Wasn't light supposed to be good? In the stories?

He dashed his hand across his eyes, shook himself, and bolted. The fire was spreading towards where he was; old, run-down homes catching as easily as if they had been soaked in kerosene.

A hand grabbed at his arm. He whirled, his heart leaping into his mouth.

It was an old woman, one of the residents of the neighborhood.

"London will rise!" She screamed, her dark eyes desperate and crazed in the light of the flames burning up the night. "It will rise like a phoenix from the ashes of its people!"

Tom shook her hand off and sprinted away. The image was burned into his memory. Dark, frizzy hair like a halo and desperate eyes, light by the sickly light of fire.

That word again, _phoenix_ , that word that reminded him of a time before the war, a time when there had been time to scorn things like fairy tales.

* * *

 _ **ineffable: too great to be expressed in words**_

 _The abandoned ruins of the library, one month later_

Later that month, when he found himself hiding from the rain and the fire in the abandoned, half-destroyed library, he found a book. It was large, old, and bound with crinkled leather - a book of fairytales, if the fantastical illustrations inside it were any indication. But the stories looked nothing like the colorful, fanciful daydreams the other children at the orphanage had. These were drawings of the horrors of even the most idealized world, a world where mermaids turned to human turned to sea foam, where men were enslaved and executed by their own shadows.

And on the cover, engraved with a steady, careful hand, was a majestic bird in flight.

He traced the image of the phoenix with a finger that was shaking from the cold. The bird was indescribably great, awe-inspiring. It was proud, unshakable, a powerful entity deserving of respect. Everything he wished he himself was.

 _Oh, to be a phoenix,_ he thought. _To fly (I always wanted to be airborne, but they never let me on the swings)... For fire to be a home and not something to be feared… To be immortal and never fear death - I wish I were a phoenix._

* * *

 _ **fey: doomed, fated to die**_

 _The streets of London; a week later_

Tom was curled up on the sidewalk against the wall of an abandoned store, shivers from hunger and cold wracking his small frame.

The bombs were falling again, _like great big lumps of rain_ , his fevered brain supplied. They screamed as they tore through the air, in a beautiful harmony with the people standing on the ground to meet them at the end of their fall.

Then there was one heading towards him, heavy and dark and eclipsing the sickly sun, and _why does it want me, none of them ever did,_ and he was just so tired that he couldn't even be afraid and _maybe it'll play with me and for once I won't be alone. Maybe I'll be like a phoenix and fire will become home - the beginning and end of all things- and there'll be no more cold and I will never have to worry again..._ But his subconscious sent up a last, powerful effort, a desperate desire to live, and for a split second he _wanted_ to be away from there and so he was.

And with that effort his eyes slipped shut and he surrendered.

When he opened his eyes again, it was quite clear that he was no longer in London; rather, he was sitting alone in a bleak rain-washed meadow. For a brief moment he entertained the thought he was in heaven; however, he had always been told he would end up in hell and his surroundings were altogether too nice to be hell. He was still hungry and sore, but he wasn't dead. He couldn't even bring himself to be relieved.

"Why?" he whispered. _I was ready to die._

And then he realized that he had teleported and that _oh, the other children were right, and I really am a freak after all._

And crystal drop gleamed in the dull sunlight as it washed the soot and grime off his cheek and he pulled his legs in and hugged them to his chest.

The sharp trill of a bird startled him and he raised his head. The sun had slunk closer to the horizon and a brisk breeze was tugging at his tattered shirt and raising goosebumps on his dust-stained arms.

He watched a bird leap out of a sapling in a flurry of leaves and feathers. Its wings gleamed dully in the light.

"Phoenix." he whispered. But that wasn't right; this bird had never known the heat, the fear, the power of fire.

He pitied it.

Fire was terrible, and yet, it was great…

* * *

 _ **epoch: a particular period of time in history or in a person's life**_

 _The meadow; Tom, aged 9_

He lived there- uncounted weeks of living in peace off river-water and grass. But he wanted to be special, to be great, and if he wanted that, he could not spend his whole life alone in a meadow.

And one night the horizon wasn't lit up orange with the fires of london, and so he knew it was time to leave. He slept restlessly that night and dreamed of charcoal and ash.

The next morning he awoke with the grey mists of dawn and the chirping of the birds and stared out in the direction London was.

It had never occurred to him exactly how he was to return. Closing his eyes and wishing he was in at the orphanage proved to have no effect- perhaps because his wish was distinctly half-hearted.

The fluttering of a bird caught his eye and he was struck with an idea- _I want to be a bird. A phoenix._

And before he knew it the world looked a lot larger and there was nothing under his feet.

* * *

 **AN: Hope you guys liked it!**

 **I changed Tom Riddle's birth year so that the Blitz would happen when he is younger. I'm fairly sure the whole Voldemort = Fawkes thing has not been done before… so… at least it's definitely original.**

 **This will follow canon. Yes, really. Ideas are welcome. Thanks for reading!**

 **~Dante (edited for clarity by Kodos)**


	2. Chapter 1, Part I

**Rating: T**

 **Warnings: None**

 **Relationships: None**

 **Note:** Chapter 1, Part II was put up simultaneously as the next chapter. A friend of mine told me that she dislikes long chapters because she then feels obligated to finish them, and since this chapter was something like 8000 words, I decided to split it up. The cut is along the midway point not in terms of the plot, but in terms of the the approximate number of words, so the ending may seem abrupt.

* * *

 **Chapter 1:** **Halcyon**

 **Part I**

Tom had always been a troublemaker. He wasn't one in the conventional sense, in that he never pranked his classmates or disrupted class with a charming smile and an irritatingly witty quip. Rather, he was simply the wrong combination of prideful and wily.

He was bullied by some of the older children who didn't understand why Tom would prefer books over toys, and Tom wasn't the type to shrink away and hide like most other victims. Not when he knew he could hurt them back. So it became a constantly escalating war between Tom and his bullies in which Tom always came out triumphant. It seemed that they were well on their way to destroying the orphanage, if not the town itself, when the matron decided that she'd had enough and sent him away to a new orphanage in London. She seemed to think that the bigger the orphanage, the more people to put him in his proper place.

He had only been five years of age at the time, and he had cried himself to sleep under the cold blankets of this unfamiliar orphanage on his first night there. The orphanages had been equally unwelcoming, equally run down, but the little town his mother had abandoned him in had been his home to some extent.

So when Tom realized after his little adventure that he had to return to his orphanage, which would provide him with proper food and shelter, it was not London he returned to, but this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

The matron recognized him, and was loath to take him in. Only the chance presence of a young lady from town saved him. She had an innocent air around her, having somehow managed to remain completely oblivious to England's plight, and smiled in a way far too genuine for someone living in a country at war. It only took a single look at him for her to start cooing over his smooth skin and his silky hair, though it was in disarray despite his multiple attempts at combing it with steady fingers. So that she wouldn't be seen rejecting the "poor thing" who'd shown up on the doorstep out of the blue, the matron had ordered him into the furthest room on the right on the second floor - "Yes, just up those stairs there."

Ultimately, of course, the girl left without him, but at least she didn't leave with another child either. She had been too young, anyway - nineteen, perhaps, at most, a sheltered, spoiled city girl with bright lipstick and neatly coifed hair.

For the next few months, he stayed quietly in his room, keeping to himself. Meals were stolen and brought back to his room. None of the caretakers spent enough time in the adult section of the orphanage's small library to notice the absence of several books. He entertained himself with memorizing each sentence the stolen books, sounding out each word quietly and repeating it until it sounded beautiful and enchanting, a single note in the music of the English language. _In ancient Greece and Rome_ , he read, _the bird, φοῖνιξ, was sometimes associated with the similar-sounding Phoenicia, a kingdom famous for its production of purple dye from conch shells._ "Greece," he said aloud. "Greece and Rome."

No one dared bother him; where before, caretakers would drag him outside, insisting he interact with the other children then leaving him to be bullied, to be mocked, they now allowed him his solitude. When he did venture out of his room, the children ignored him. None of the children knew why they did, because they were children; the adults did, but they never put words to it.

When the fourth month arrived, the matron decided that they would be going on a short trip down to the local market and gave each child a bit of money so they could buy themselves a few trinkets to entertain themselves with. Tom received the same pittance everyone else did.

The walk was some fifteen minutes. The market was a bit out of the way for most residents of the neighborhood, yet when they arrived, the stalls were bustling with activity and the excited screams of children. A way to take the mind off of war, Tom supposed.

"Don't stray too far," one of the caretakers yelled, a futile attempt to overcome the noise of the market. "Meet us here at noon - and don't be late!"

The other children were already long gone, of course, wanting to see the wonders of the market.

Tom slipped off quietly, too, fiddling with the coins in his pocket, but he didn't want to look at the stalls' many-splendored glory. Rather, he listened in on conversations. Most were mundane - "Mary told me the other day, you know, when we had lunch together, Lettie's brat ran off with some girl from down the street. Good riddance, I tell you!" - and others downright bizarre - "I don't suppose you've got any cabbages on you? I'm in need of a good cabbage right now - just let me know if you see one, yeah?" - but the one he found himself drawn to was a quiet murmur at the edge of the market between two men dressed oddly in flowing robes.

It was one word that caught his ear, the one word he had been obsessing over - "phoenix." After the first time in the meadow, when he had flown free on streams of air, oxygen for his heart to burn, he had never managed to turn again. He'd woken up, delirious, in a creek bed not far from the nearest town, vulnerably human and undressed. Since then, he hadn't transformed again, though not for lack of effort.

He cast an interested eye over the stall closest to the men and moved closer as if for a better look. It was selling several large, colorful afghans, which he had no use for and couldn't afford to boot, but it served to disguise him as a simple customer. The two men were speaking quietly, hushed, but not fearful - it was something to be kept between them, but not a fatally dangerous secret.

"He'll be stopped before he even reaches France, then?"

Ah. They were talking about the war. That would explain why they spoke so quietly: they didn't wish to ruin the joyful mood. But no - France had already been taken, had long been taken, by the Nazis.

"We can't hope for that, Franz, you know that. Look - " Here, he reached into his voluminous clothing and pulled out a small slip of paper. "Get out of here. You're in more danger than I am from him, if the man with the phoenix can't stop him."

"You just said he could!"

"Yes, I said he _can_. But _will_ he?"

"Why not?"

"Franz, if he has the power - and he does, yes, that's what I said - then why would he hesitate to confront him? This war has been going on for years. What's he waiting for?"

Franz was not deterred, and pushed on. "Well, what about the Society? They're English, and if England really is in danger, they'll make a move. And you know them - they won't be defeated by some madman killing things left and right. They're certainly powerful enough."

"Perhaps historically, yes. But they haven't faced a threat like this in ages; we don't know that the current Society is up for it."

"But the prophecy - the prophecy!"

The other man was sympathetic, understanding. "You know how prophecies are. Always working on technicalities, and half the time we don't realize they've been fulfilled until years later."

Franz was silent, but held a distinctly mutinous expression.

"Take this," and the slip of paper, probably a ticket of some sort, was thrust under Franz's nose again. This time, Franz took it, albeit reluctantly.

"That's all you wanted to talk about?" Franz asked, chilly.

"There's one more thing." The unnamed man leaned in even closer and lowered his voice further. "They're saying that Dumbledore - the man with the phoenix - they're saying that - "

But what "they" were saying about this "Dumbledore," Tom wouldn't know. From the corner of the eye, he saw the owner of the stall with the afghans making his way towards him, either to make a sale or to chase off the filthy little brat who was loitering suspiciously next to his stall.

 _He probably thinks I'm here to rob him blind_ , Tom thought uncharitably. Adults had a habit of looking at children unaccompanied by their parents and think the worst. _In my case, at least, he's right._ With a sudden, vicious anger, he set the afghans on fire.

The sound of the stallkeeper's panicked shouts as he tried to wave down the fire put him in a smug, satisfied mood for the rest of the day.

~*l*~

The next day, he showed for breakfast. The rowdy conversation didn't stop, and the cook handed him a bowl of porridge like he was anyone else. Another change, Tom noted. The bullies of the orphanage used to zero in on him as their primary target. After the first of Tom's counterattacks, they'd been a bit warier, but no less enthusiastic. The cook had looked at him with a mix of derision and fear.

His tormentors from four years ago were still there, picking on the younger children. But apparently, they had forgotten him, and though he found himself oddly hurt that they no longer paid him any attention, he knew he wouldn't miss the mocking laughter that accompanied their notice.

Today, he had a reason to be down here eating breakfast. Children above the age of eight could go out into the town as long as they were with someone fifteen years or older. Tom, now nine, had found the perfect target: Mark, a quiet sixteen-year-old from poor parents who had died in the last air bombing, and generally chose to avoid the other orphans. As usual, Mark was sitting by himself with a book next to him. It was well-worn, and, if Tom's observations were correct, a gift from his late parents. The book was a representation of Mark's love for reading as much as it was a reminder of his past.

Since it was a second-hand bookstore Tom wanted to go to, to purchase new reading material with the coins he'd saved from the market yesterday, Mark was the best choice.

Additionally, Mark had arrived at the orphanage after Tom's little... _escapade_. He wouldn't have heard about Tom's cruel, vindictive nature.

Before, Tom had been content with the books and newspapers available to anyone with the talent for thievery. But not only was he quickly running out of material, but he also wanted to look into that conversation he'd eavesdropped on yesterday - this "Dumbledore" must be somewhat famous. Although he'd have loved to read more on this "Society" instead, it really wasn't enough information to go off on, so he went for the second best option.

Tom slid onto the bench next to Mark, who looked up in undisguised surprise.

"Hello," Tom said plainly. Then he choked down a spoonful of porridge. He still hadn't gotten used to the cook's habit of abusing the salt, even though he'd been at the orphanage for five years.

"Can I help you?"

It seemed Mark already understood that unless someone wanted something from him, it was unlikely that anyone would interact with him. Something Tom had learned long ago, and something most children, even the older ones, didn't learn for a while. Children, and even some obnoxiously naïve adults, tended to be blindly optimistic.

There was no point in pretending any kind of friendship with Mark. They had a common goal - to go to the bookstore. Mark didn't know that the bookstore existed. Neither did most of the townspeople, since it was hidden away on the second floor above a pub behind an unassuming wooden door. Tom did, and that was what he had to offer. Tom, on the other hand, couldn't leave the orphanage without proper supervision. Mark could, and that was what he had to offer.

Tom's information was good for one trip - once Mark knew where it was, he didn't need Tom. But Mark, Tom knew, wouldn't mind the company if it was quiet and unobtrusive. Neither would Mark feel the need to hold any sort of power over Tom.

"I want to go out," Tom answered, leaning closer to Mark. "And you're old enough to go with me. You enjoy reading, and you saved enough money from the market the other day to buy a new book from... say... a second-hand bookstore."

Mark gave him a wary glance. "There are no second-hand bookstores around here. I've been out. The only bookstore is for the posh old people up the hill."

"It's there," Tom promised. "Besides, what could it hurt?"

Mark looked at him for a bit, then turned away and started reading again. It was neither an affirmative nor a negative response, but Tom was confident that Mark would agree.

In the meantime, Tom pulled a book out from under his robes and opened it on his lap and swallowed yet another spoonful of overly salted porridge.

The book was titled _A Woman's History of Magic: Iconic Female Characters in Arthurian Legends_. Its gold binding, unusually clean and bright compared to the other denizens of the orphanage library, had attracted his attention. He had read the legends before, of course, but it had been a long time ago and he barely remembered a word of them.

 _Morgan turns up throughout the High and Late Middle Ages in a variety of roles, generally in works related to the cycles of Arthur or Charlemagne. They often feature Morgan as a lover and benefactor of various heroes, sometimes also introducing her additional offspring or alternate siblings. At the end of the 14th-century Middle English romance Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, one of the best known Arthurian stories, it is revealed that the entire Green Knight plot has been instigated by Gawain's aunt the goddess Morgne, who takes and appearance of an elderly woman, as a test for Arthur and his knights and to frighten Guinevere to death._

Already bored, he flipped forward to the next chapter, "The Virgin Mary." Morgan, fascinating as she was with her magical power, had somehow been dull and lifeless by the author, but the next chapter seemed just as dry. He wondered if he could find a more interesting book on the same topic. Probably not, considering how few books the library held.

"We can go in the afternoon," Mark said, interrupting his thoughts. He was standing up, taking his bowl with him. "I have some things I want to do first."

Tom nodded his assent. Mark turned and left, and Tom noticed that the room seemed to be clearing out. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since he came down, but he had been late, not wanting to attract attention. Arriving well after breakfast had begun, with the room already crowded, guaranteed that nobody would be paying too much attention to him.

Everyone else was bringing their bowls over to the cook, who tossed them into a soapy sink to be washed. Tom quickly followed suit, not wanting to be the last one left, and made his way up to his room as soon as he could.

Paper and graphite were commodities they weren't usually allowed, but he had stashed away a few stacks of paper and a ten or so sticks of graphite some time ago, stolen from the classroom. The teacher, who had never liked him, had immediately blamed him for it, but he had a solid alibi: during lunch, he had taken someone else's apple and been caught; the punishment was a ruler across his hand and time-out under the eagle eye of the teacher. Clearly, then, he could not have been in the classroom committing a far greater transgression.

Both thefts had been his fault, of course: the paper and graphite had been stolen during class, right out from under the teacher's inattentive and overlarge nose.

By some stroke of luck, he had been given his old room, which had remained untouched, and now, he took out a single leaf, kept clean and straight under his floorboards, and a half-used stick of graphite. He put the book next to him, open to the first page of Morgan's chapter, and wrote onto the paper: "Animal transformation - Morgan turns herself into a bird at will." He flipped to the next page, where there was a drawing of Morgan with her hands laid over a man's open wound: "Healing magic - magic not just for offense?"

The chapter hadn't given any more examples of her magical ability. His materials went back under the floorboards, along with the book - the caretakers never came into his room, but if they did, they'd throw a fit at the sight of a book in the grubby hands of a child.

He had kept a list of potential feats to be performed for when he felt particularly uninspired. Unfortunately, it had been left in London, but he could always start a new one.

By now, he could talk to snakes, coerce another person or animal into doing what he wished it to, and summon things to him with split-second timing that ensured that the victim didn't realize he was being pickpocketed.

Yet, he had yet to manage self-transformation again.

This - the mention of Morgan's ability to transform - was the first proof he had that it was possible. Of course, it wasn't actually _proof_ , per se; it could very well have originated from the imagination of some ordinary writer from decades ago who amused himself by turning Morgan into a bird. But magic hadn't existed for centuries; Tom was the first of an advanced species of human to appear again after so many years. There were no books and no studies on the topic. So this was the best kind of proof he could get.

But what kind of a wizard was he if he couldn't even achieve a simple transformation which magicians of past ages had completed with such ease?

He gritted his teeth and, perhaps unwisely, threw a fist against his bedpost. The throb in his hand brought him back to himself, and he breathed in deeply, trying to calm down.

He would, of course, be the best. The best wizard the world had ever seen, any cost.

~*l*~

In the afternoon, Mark had come around to see if he still wanted to go out. Tom, frustrated by his failed attempts, decided that taking a break would be good for his mind.

The outing to the bookstore was a success. Tom had only ever been in there once when he had snuck out of the orphanage early in the morning. Of course, he'd been punished severely when he had returned, but it had definitely been worth it.

It became a semi-regular thing. Tom and Mark would go out to the bookstore every week. They didn't have money to buy anything after the first time, but the owner was a kind old lady living on the third floor of the same building who had been utterly charmed by Tom. She allowed them to borrow her books and gave them slices of cake whenever she was baking. Mark would sit in her kitchen upstairs and talk to her sometimes while Tom perused her collection, and Tom gave her the paltry sums of money and random knickknacks that he stole from the other children.

Mark and Tom were not friends - Mark saw too much darkness and ambition in Tom and preferred his own anonymity, and Tom thought Mark was too weak with his passive nature. Though Tom was avoiding attention now, he knew he couldn't do it forever, not the way Mark did.

If anything, Tom would say that what they had was an alliance, formed against the common enemy, the close-minded children and caretakers at the orphanage who saw little value in knowledge.

Books, as Tom saw them, were the closest things he had to friends. They gave him what he needed to know and he, in turn, treated them with careful respect, making sure that they were always returned to the bookshop in the best condition. In them were stories of faraway places, a chance to escape from the humdrum of each routine day at the orphanage. Some would feature his mythical friend, the phoenix.

But even in the books, never were there humans who found the phoenix to be their alternate form, not like Tom needed them to be. They were only ever enigmatic creatures to be discovered, or allies in a legendary fight against evil. These stories of clear-cut good versus evil he thought were overly simplistic, with outdated concepts like chivalry and nobility.

To him, those concepts were moot - why not take every advantage he could? To befriend and poison an enemy was not cowardice; it was the best way to murder someone with little personal risk. To flee a lost battle rather than die valiantly on the battlefield was merely common sense. These medieval tales would have him challenge the enemy to a duel, or remain to fight a hopeless battle. It made little sense to him.

Despite his desire to find out more about this elusive phoenix, he quickly discarded these books, unable to stand the stupidly valiant protagonists.

But as he would soon discover, the books he found himself drawn to were not stories, but rather textbooks and essays. The owner had been confounded to learn this, but nevertheless began readying stacks of them for Tom whenever he came.

Only one of them mentioned the phoenix. The book gave a history of its use in literature, and of its appearances in painting, sculpture, and architecture. It did not give him what he searched for: there were no further mentions of human transformation into a phoenix, or indeed into any other animal. Still, it was the most useful book Tom had found in the bookstore, and he wished he had saved his money for this book; he had spent it all on a less interesting one on the Industrial Revolution during his first visit.

As for "Dumbledore," the man with the phoenix, Tom had forgotten entirely about him. He was only a small note in the back of Tom's head, reading, "Dumbledore, man with phoenix - immensely powerful, perhaps somewhat well-known?" None of the books mentioned him, and so Tom let him slip his mind. He was not that famous, then, not if he was never mentioned, even in passing, in any of the books.

His comfortably stead routine was forcibly broken on a chilly summer morning. Though the weather declared it autumn, and had been declaring it autumn for the past few weeks, Tom knew that the equinox wouldn't be for another week yet, and so had stubbornly decided that it was, indeed, still summer; and therefore there would be no school, no classes, and most importantly, no teachers chastising him for his advanced knowledge.

It came as a bit of a shock when the tenth of September rolled around and Tom was unceremoniously shoved into a classroom by a caretaker sick of the children's reluctance to attend school.

Tom recognized some of the children in his class. He had never spoken with them, only seen them in passing. None of his former tormenters were here, which came as something of a relief to him. They had stopped bothering him, and Tom was confident he could easily avoid them, but they still gave him an uneasy feeling. Knowing that children who had once managed to physically hurt him were near him was unnerving.

Mark was there, on the other side of the room, with a book he'd recently received from the bookshop owner in return for his aid with her baking. Nothing interesting was happening, and nothing interesting would. Tom picked up a small piece of graphite off the ground and began copying memorized lists of various magical feats in literature, remembered more because of how many times he'd read them than because of any true attempt at memorization on his part.

Seeing what he could one day do reassured him that the boredom he endured now was worth it.

* * *

 **Notes:**

1\. I know that my Tom is very different from Dante's. For this, I'm sorry.

2\. The italicized quote in the third paragraph is from the Wikipedia article for the phoenix as a mythological creature. For this, I'm not sorry.

3\. The italicized quote about Morgan le Fay is from her wikipedia article. Morgan's abilities (healing, animagus transformation) are canon. Everything else about her is not.

4\. I read something that said that schools in the 1900s included children from all grades, and the teachers were expected to just deal with that. I don't know whether this was applicable in this situation.


	3. Chapter 1, Part II

**Rating: T**

 **Warnings: None** (Unless "damn" counts as profanity, which in my opinion it doesn't really.)

 **Relationships: None**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Halcyon**

 **Part II**

As the year went on, he realized that his worries about what school would bring - bullying, mocking, _teachers_ \- were seemingly unfounded. School was tedious but came with a library with the occasional book worthy of reading. None of them mentioned the phoenix, which frustrated Tom, but he made do with what he had. The phoenix was apparently some rare creature that only appeared in historical works, a creature now forgotten in the mind of the modern man.

Though he had no luck with finding anything about the phoenix, nor had he successfully transformed again, he found himself in an unusually optimistic mood. His power - magic, he had named it - was growing each day, and he used it to vanish the teacher's chalk and to steal his schoolmates' money. Controlling it came easily to him; a mere thought, and it was accomplished. None of the others had this power; if they did, he would've known, would've noticed.

His days were a steady routine. School ran from seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. Each morning, he woke at the crack of dawn to shower and practice using his magic; then, when he felt tired, he read until breakfast. After school, he did his homework, which was far too easy since he already knew the material. If he had time, he would walk to the bookstore with Mark. By then, they were going a few times each week, for the cake as much as for the books.

The months passed without incident. On All Hallows' Eve, the others dressed up in self-made costumes patched together from old clothing and paper. Christmas was celebrated with a wilting little tree in the dining room and pudding for desert. New Year's was greeted with an enthusiastic countdown, followed by the caretakers chasing everyone to their rooms.

Tom locked himself up in his own room during these celebrations. On New Year's Eve, in the afternoon, he and Mark went again to the bookstore. When he let it slip that it was his birthday, the owner had exclaimed in surprise, then declared that yet another cake must be baked for the special occasion.

"Really, it's no trouble. I've never celebrated it before." It was half token protest, half honesty. He felt no compulsion to celebrate the day he'd been brought into this world by his vagrant of a mother, but he had never before refused an offer of sweets, especially when it was free.

"Ms. Sowilo's right, Tom. That's probably all the more reason we should celebrate this year," Mark said. His word were lost, as the owner - Ms. Sowilo, as Tom now knew - was already bustling up the stairs to her kitchen. Tom saw no choice but to follow her up for cake.

It even had icing, a rarity now that sugar was so expensive.

After that, he went back to school, learning nothing except what he read in his books while he was supposed to be listening to the teacher. This year, at least, the teacher, a young lady by the name of Miss Carbonell, didn't mind his inattention; in fact, she practically encouraged it, as it meant one less student to be taught.

In short, his life was nothing like it and been before. The war waged on, but it was outside of a little bubble of peace Tom found himself in. The scorn and derision he used to encounter at every corner was gone, and he attributed that to his increased magical ability. A form of unconscious coercion, he hypothesized. External problems had all gone.

The only conflict Tom found was with himself and his troublesome magic, which refused to cooperate in the one endeavor he worked for most arduously. He had improved, of course, but barely - he could turn his skin an alarming shade of pomegranate red, which he knew to be the color of his phoenix form, and once, he had looked in the mirror to find that his irises were dominating his eyes. Objectively, he knew he was already superior to all these mundane beings around him, and that his magic had helped him in many parts of his life. Yet, he still found himself disappointed with each failed transformation.

He would succeed, he vowed. He would. He had all the time in the world. His goal of becoming the best wizard in the world had not changed.

~*l*~

Tom had never had the chance to be naïve. He had been orphaned at infancy and placed in the care of women who had to take care of countless others in addition to him, who had no time to spend playing favorites. Loneliness was a familiar concept to him, and with it came self-sufficiency.

Then, when he was older, the others realized he was different. He was bullied for his intellect and shunned for his his "freakish" nature. Unnaturally small for his age and bookish to boot, he was the perfect target for these children who didn't know better, and who had nothing else to do. Constant vigilance, thinking on his feet, and careful planning were second nature by the time he was six years of age, running from his tormentors and succeeding more often than not.

The memories of running, the memories of being so damn weak that he had no choice but to run, were kept at the forefront of his mind.

And now, replacing them, the memories of running through flaming buildings, screeching metal, falling stones. The Blitz.

These were the memories that drove his desire for knowledge, for magic, and for power.

He remembered the fires, and he labored over thick, old books. He remembered the crash of collapsing buildings, and he lit a fire in his hand. He remembered the dizzying heat, and he ruthlessly smothered the heartbeat of a stray dog in the garden. He never wanted to run again, run through the bombs and blistering flames, run from what seemed to be the rage of an angry god.

No, he wanted to be the one to stand up against everything and scream, "No, no more - this is my country, my land, and you will not take it away from me!" A god in his own right.

But those memories were now oddly ephemeral. Those memories were now exactly that - memories.

The cynicism he used to possess would never have let those memories fade. He blamed it on his newly emerging idealistic nature.

He didn't blame himself for the accident, since he knew he could have done nothing to prevent it; but he did blame himself for being so satisfied, so happy with his new life that he had thought, maybe, everything would be all right..

It had been a Friday evening, not long after school had let out for the summer. Tom, content with his reading material, had opted to stay in his room to work his way through the new volume he'd bought with the money he'd stolen from Cooper. He'd seen no one that day except the cook, when he'd went into the kitchen to steal a bit of food before it was salted.

Unbeknownst to him, Mark had gone to the bookshop that day to celebrate his birthday with Ms. Sowilo, who had promised to bring in some of Mark's favorite foods for dinner. And unbeknownst to all of them, a small metal salt shaker had been thrown minutes earlier by a jealous girl at her flirtatious significant other in the back alley behind the pub. It had been dodged neatly thanks to years of rugby, and it had clanged loudly against the rusty old gas pipe of the building.

The pair had been a bit too busy arguing to notice.

All this meant that when the middle-aged chain smoking bartender from the pub had sat down for a quick smoke on an upturned wooden crate in the alley placed there for this exact purpose, the resulting explosion could only have been described as "quite impressive."

Not only that, but the death count, with the bartender, Mark and Ms. Sowilo, the arguing couple, and the Friday crowd of local blue-collar workers looking for a reason to drink, had also been "quite impressive."

Tom didn't even find out until the next morning by way of a gravely apathetic announcement from the matron during breakfast. Suddenly, everyone was Mark's best friend.

If anyone, his best friend would've been Tom, who had at least spoken with him on a semi-regular basis.

He found that he didn't mourn either of them. He regretted their deaths of course; Mark had been his ticket out to town, and the bookshop a safe haven of knowledge, comfort, and food. He had, quite against his own will, come to like the both of them, too. But he didn't feel the deep sorrow his books described, the emptiness in his heart now that they had gone.

He took all this in stride.

But as if his demons had been waiting for a signal, a kind of clarion call, his life was afterwards one unfortunate event after another.

First, not a week after the wake the orphanage held for Mark, a new boy by the name of Al, orphaned by the same explosion that had killed Mark, arrived. He was large and beefy, toughened by the years of abuse laid on him by his alcoholic father, and seeking revenge against the world for what his father had done to him.

"The world," apparently, meant Tom.

Although Tom was now more powerful than he had ever been, he found himself becoming the frightened child of his past when confronted. His magic didn't help. Snakes could bite him, but only if Al didn't smash them first with a pudgy hand. Coercion didn't work, no matter how strongly Tom tried to project the phrase 'go away,' but Tom correctly attributed that to the fact that Al was dumber than a rock, and didn't really have a mind for Tom to coerce. And pickpocketing, while fun, was no use against the threat of physical violence.

It became a dangerous downward spiral. Instead of attacking Al directly, Tom set his belongings on fire, coerced other children into insulting him, or stole the few belongings Al had brought with him. Al would somehow manage to blame Tom for everything, even those things which had absolutely nothing to do with Tom, and suddenly, Tom was dodging behind bushes and holing himself up in his room all day to avoid the other children, who now lashed out at him in fear.

If he were smarter, he'd have stayed in his room and avoided Al at all costs, but Tom enjoyed watching Al lumber after him, enjoyed taunting him from a safe distance.

Mostly 'harmless play' with other children, as the caretakers would say, but Tom hadn't been careful. This many "accidents" - snakes appearing out of the blue to scare someone off, sudden belligerent behavior in the other children, items disappearing into thin air - was noticeable, and associated with him. When he had returned after the bombing, he had been quiet unobtrusive, and so he had disappeared into the background. But now that he was acting up, as he had before the bombing, and the contempt and the fear returned with a vengeance.

He could fight multiple targets, but when the targets included people with the authority to punish him, to throw him out and leave him in the cold, to take away his books and scant belongings, he was left at a loss. The only things safe from the caretakers were two books and his writing materials, all that he could fit under his floorboards.

Second, three months later, he'd had to go to school to start the next year. At first, he had been assigned to the same lenient teacher he'd had last year, but at the days before the start of the term, she had eloped with a rich American and ran off with him to the U.S. Her replacement was strict and insisted he follow her curriculum, even if he was far too advanced for a single thing she tried to teach him. He had learned from the events of his summer, though - he didn't antagonize her, and instead did all the endless work she gave him. He was never punished, and was in fact seen as the "teacher's pet," but the monotony that ran from seven in the morning to three in the afternoon for five days a week nearly made him wish for a sharp rebuke and a few lashes instead.

Al was in the same class as him. But fortunately, the loud disruptions he caused each time he tried to confront Tom got him sent to the back of the room, far away from Tom's desk.

And the third and last thing that Mark and Sowilo's deaths brought was both the worst and best thing that had ever happened to him.

~*l*~

The winter vacation had been a welcome break for Tom. Christmas that year was celebrated with bottles of whiskey among the caretakers that were inevitably stolen by and split between some of the older children. There were no classes to go to, and half the orphanage had come down with a cold, or something like it. The other half had food poisoning from the one dish the cook hadn't remembered to salt: corned beef.

Sometimes, he wondered about that cook. Perhaps she wasn't quite right in the head - it would certainly explain many things about her.

Tom was a proud member of the half of the orphanage with a simple cold. His wasn't even as bad as everyone else's; a running nose and irritating cough was nowhere as bad as the fevers and congestion that everyone else had. It meant that the caretakers were too busy now to bother with him, anyway, and he had returned to the quiet, withdrawn behavior of the summer, bothering no one so that nobody would bother him.

In hindsight, it wasn't so much a break as the calm before the storm.

Albus Dumbledore came in the afternoon on New Year's Eve, Tom's birthday. Tom had been sitting in his room reading, attempting to forget about the cake and the icing and the books he'd had at Ms. Sowilo's place, about Mark, who had neither liked him nor disliked him but kept him company anyway. It had all been just a year ago, one year exactly. A knock on the door jerked him out of his thoughts, and he warily opened the door. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and unless something drastic had happened, he shouldn't be expecting anyone.

He was greeted by a man in an offensively flamboyant suit of plum velvet that clashed spectacularly with his auburn hair.

"Hello, Tom," the man said, inviting himself in. "I'm Professor Dumbledore, of the Hogwarts - "

"Professor?" Tom asked. So this was Dumbledore, the famous Dumbledore with the phoenix; but that was too much for him right now, caught off guard as he was, so he fixated on the word 'professor.' He knew the word, and it was right there in his mind, but he couldn't quite grasp it. Perhaps he didn't read enough of the right books. "Are you here to take me away too? Like they did when I was younger, away to the - " What was the word? Oh, yes. "The asylum?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and Tom hated him on the spot, notwithstanding what he could tell Tom about phoenixes and a certain Society. Even worse, the man sat down on his bed and smiled indulgently.

"Oh, no. I wouldn't dream of it. I'm a teacher at a school - the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Tom latched onto that immediately, mind whirling. Witchcraft? Wizardry? And a school for it, too - that would imply that there were enough people, at least in Britain, with the capacity for magic that a school of magic was necessary. And this man in front of him, he was a wizard too. He could do all the things Tom could do. Suddenly, the absence of Mark and Ms. Sowilo didn't matter anymore. They were gone, and so what? So what, if this was what he received in return for their deaths?

They hadn't known him. Not like this man could know him.

"I can see you're familiar with magic," Dumbledore continued. "You've probably experienced some accidental magic. Changing your skin color, perhaps, or growing out a bad haircut?"

"I can make people do I want," Tom offered, excited. For the first time, he had found someone he liked, someone he wanted to impress. It was all spilling out of him with little regard for caution. "Set things on fire, make things disappear - I once turned into a - "

Dumbledore held up a hand, his eyes darkening. Tom felt himself deflating, but, remembering himself, didn't show it. Had he said too much? Perhaps that wasn't the kind of magic he was supposed to be doing. Perhaps they didn't want him anymore. He felt himself beginning to panic, because even a different kind of magic was better than no magic at all. He knew he was jumping to conclusions, but couldn't reign himself in. _Get a bloody hold on yourself_ , he thought. _You are a wizard, and you will be a god. Act like it._

"I don't need the full list," Dumbledore said, but Tom could tell that that wasn't what the man had been thinking. "In the meantime, I'd like to inform you that we don't endorse bullying at Hogwarts. If you are being bullied, you will tell a teacher, and they will take care of it. Coercing others, setting them on fire - none of that will be allowed."

He was - he was _chastising_ him. _Tom_ , who was magical, who was smarter and better than everyone else, who was, apparently, a wizard. What right did this Dumbledore have to scold him as he would a child, after Tom had been left alone for so long in this cruel place where acting like a child would only get him hurt?

For that matter, what proof did he have that Dumbledore wasn't here to bring him to an asylum? Tom had just as good as confessed to his apparent madness.

Proof. He needed proof.

He ignored what Dumbledore had said, and asked, "And you - are you a wizard too?"

Both of Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Well, of course, Tom. I'm the - "

"Prove it."

Dumbledore's eyes sharpened as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out what looked to be a simple stick. But with a flick of it towards the floor, suddenly, a floorboard had disappeared, revealing his books and papers.

Suddenly panicked, Tom looked up at Dumbledore, but the man wasn't looking at the contents of his hideaway. Instead, he was watching Tom, as if for his reaction. Tom forced himself to calm down; the books were both his, not the orphanage's; they'd been bought from Ms. Sowilo at a very low price. And the paper and graphite had been stolen so long ago that he doubted anyone would make the connection.

Dumbledore seemed slightly disappointed, though, as if he had been hoping to find something else.

"Now, Tom. What I said about bullying: was all that clear?"

Tom nodded his assent, then cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, and Tom wondered if maybe that wasn't enough. What did he want him to do - get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness? He wondered if he was too proud to do that, if it came down to it. He didn't know; was humiliation worth the rewards?

"As long as we're clear," Dumbledore said. "I have your letter right here. It will tell you how to get to Hogwarts, when, and what you will need to bring."

School supplies? But Tom barely had any money. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that Tom was dirt poor and didn't _rightfully_ own anything at all. Every coin he had, every book he'd bought, had been the result of his pickpocketing skills. But, he reasoned, pickpocketing was only a job, illegal as it was, and every penny he had was earned.

Not that Dumbledore needed to know that.

"Excuse me, sir," Tom said. "But I haven't got any money of my own - my mother was poor and left nothing for me, and I'm not nearly old enough to be hired for a job."

"Hogwarts will pay for it. There is a special account for this exact purpose."

This exact purpose - did magical children often end up stranded among these mundane humans with nothing to their names? Or maybe the account had been created for poor wizards whose children couldn't afford the supplies, but Tom couldn't see how anyone magical could ever be poor. Not with this amount of power.

"I can see you have many questions," Dumbledore said. "And they will all be answered in due time. You can consider the offer to attend Hogwarts, and I, or another member of the Hogwarts staff, will return on July the seventh for your answer, and to take you out to buy your supplies if you accept. In the meantime, you should know that revealing your abilities, or the existence of a magical world, is strictly illegal." He looked at Tom over his spectacles, eyes hard. "I trust that any future magical incidents will be entirely accidental."

Tom swallowed and stood, nodding his assent.

"Now, I must be going. Have a good day." With a nod of his head, Dumbledore was out of the door, and out of Tom's life, as quickly as he had entered it.

Tom stood there for a while, hearing Dumbledore and the matron conversing - "How was he, Mr. Dumberton?" - "Oh, perfectly fine. He's a very talented young boy - " and here, their voices faded out as they went down the stairs. Somehow, Tom didn't think that "talented" was really meant as a good thing.

The letter was still in his hand. A quick scan told him that the first day of school would be on September the first, and there would be a train leaving from King's Cross Station, Platform 9 3/4. There was another piece of paper which appeared to be the supply list.

He bowed his head slightly, suddenly exhausted.

A magical school, then. And, it seemed, a magical world, all of which he knew nothing about. He wished he had been told more - where he could find a good book on real magic, perhaps. There was so much to learn. How was he to survive in an entirely new world with no information to go on?

He had thought that his magic had set him apart from the rest of the world, and in the space of ten minutes, he had had this illusion shattered. But none of his promises about becoming the most powerful wizard to date had to change. If anything, his goal was now even more attainable. With real books on the subject, with teachers - he wouldn't have to rely purely on myths and legends.

He turned away from the door, which he had been staring at since Dumbledore left. It was slightly ajar, since Dumbledore had not closed it fully behind him.

Tom closed his eyes and inhaled, clenching his fists. Then he opened his eyes again and strode over the shut the door firmly. There was no time to waste. He needed books written by wizards, books with accurate information, more than anything else, but in the meantime, he had some magic to practice, new skills to learn.

After all, it wouldn't do for him to arrive at school behind on magic.

* * *

 **Notes:**

5\. Miss Carbonell, is, in fact, Maria Carbonell, and the rich American she runs off with is one Howard Stark. She is American in Marvel 616 canon.

6\. I think I just gave Tom a lifelong fear of salt. Oops. It's actually hilarious for several reasons. *cough*Supernatural*cough*

7\. I don't know that the series of events that led to Mark and Sowilo's deaths is entirely plausible. In fact, it's probably not, since I have no idea how these things work.

8\. Tom's meeting with Dumbledore is different, obviously. This is because my Tom is not canon Tom. (Unless canon Tom was a phoenix.)

9\. I apologize for my crappy characterization of canon characters. Also, dialogue really isn't my thing.

11\. _Please_ review. Tell me what you think of my writing or of the characterizations, and what you would like to see. There is no outline for this story, even though I am usually very fastidious about plot and continuity and such. So I will take into account everything you say.

12\. Thanks to my beta, a real life casual acquaintance of mine. (I don't remember if I have promoted her to friend yet.)

13\. There is more information about the future of this fic on our profile.


	4. Chapter 2, Part I

**Rating:** T

 **Warnings:** None

 **Relationships:** None

 **Note:** So this entire chapter was supposed to be a 3000-word scene constituting about 60% of a single chapter. And then 4000 extra words happened. (Maybe I'm a bit long-winded?) So again, I'll be splitting it into two parts. Keep in mind while reading it that this was originally a single scene, so there was really no good place to stop like there was last time, when the split was between two different scenes.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Eos**

 **Part I**

When a visitor came to the orphanage on the seventh of July to see a Tom Marvolo Riddle, Tom was out.

Of course, the rule still applied - until he was at least thirteen years old, he couldn't go out without a chaperone. But there was no longer any need to keep up his previous rule-abiding facade. After all, he had reverted to being the demon child of his youth. So he just walked out the front door bright and early at five in the morning, and no one had been the wiser until six hours later, when the visitor had arrived, asking for him.

He hadn't even been up to anything particularly demonic at all, unless wood carving in the forest was considered demonic.

Admittedly, he had been doing it with magic - deliberate magic - but no one ever went into the forest near the orphanage, and so no one would ever see the intricate flame-like designs on the trunks of the trees.

He returned just before lunchtime, since he hadn't expected Dumbledore to arrive until the afternoon as he had last time. To his surprise, the moment he arrived, the matron snagged his arm and dragged him toward her office.

"You know you're not supposed to run off like that," she muttered into his ear. He could smell the whiskey on her breath. "You keep doing that and you'll be going to sleep starving soon." They arrived at the door, which had been left slightly ajar. "Play nice," she warned him, digging her sharp nails into his arm. "And we might just be able to get rid of you, at least for the school year."

She released his arm and pushed the door open, pulling an unnaturally stretched grin across her face. In Tom's opinion, it just made her look like a harpy. A slightly tipsy harpy who was more likely to trip over perfectly even ground than anything to do anything harpy-like, but a harpy nevertheless.

Behind the door was a young woman with an odd mix of English and Asian features, sitting in an uncomfortable-looking comfy chair with too much stuffing. She was wearing what looked to be robes, ones which resembled those of the two men in the marketplace last year. The most noticeable things about them were the high-quality material in a smooth burgundy and the silver embroidery around the edges.

"Hello, Tom," she said, rising. She held out a hand, which Tom took, careful that his grip was neither too firm nor too weak. Her hands were freezing, and there was a thin but expensive-looking band on her left ring finger. It didn't look like a wedding ring to Tom, but he didn't have the chance to examine it before she pulled her hand away. "I'm Professor Cross, and I'll be taking you out to do your shopping today." She stole a glance at the matron, who was blissfully planning a day without Tom. "I teach calculus at Hogwarts."

Calculus? They learned _calculus_ in magic school? Although Tom supposed it made sense; perhaps higher mathematics were required to understand magical theory.

Or, considering her look at the matron, she actually taught the magical equivalent of calculus.

The matron's stomach took that moment to grumble loudly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly lunch time - I must be going, I'm really very hungry - "

Cross gave the matron an undisguised, disgusted look.

"What about lunch for me, sir? Er - ma'am. I usually eat at noon," Tom said, trying not to feel awkward about his slip.

There was an odd look on Cross' face. "Sir is fine. We can eat in the shopping center, if that's all right with you?"

"That's fine, of course," the matron interrupted. "Getting out of this place will probably do him some good." And though Tom didn't disagree with her, he felt tempted to point out that he'd just been out. "Just have him back by 8:30."

"No, it won't take more than two hours." The expression on Cross' face had moved beyond disgust, which confused Tom; the matron was a repugnant woman, but there were worse things. Then, remembering the professor's expensive dress and ring, he wondered if maybe she had been born into wealth, and if she was simply revolted by the smell of cheap alcohol and the yellow of the matron's teeth.

"Oh, of course. Now, you must be going." The matron opened the door, shooing them out. "Have fun, Tom."

Cross was already out the door in a few long strides, and kept walking straight out of the orphanage without even waiting for Tom. Tom, not wanting to be left behind, quickly followed her. Before he made it out the door, he heard the matron yell, "And you're welcome to take as long as you want!"

Tom was far enough behind Cross that he knew that she wouldn't hear his quiet snort.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the professor asked.

Tom hastened after her. They went down through the center of the town, passed the little rows of houses beyond, and finally came out into the large, open fields of the farms and surrounding wilderness. He breathed in the clear country air and watched the serene path of the clouds overhead. It was something he rarely had the chance to appreciate, since any "free time" he had was spent improving his mind or his magic rather than cloud-watching.

After what must have been at least thirty minutes, Tom began to slow, wondering where they were walking. This shopping center couldn't be close enough to walk to, could it? Although he supposed it wasn't entirely impossible that an entire wizarding shopping center was tucked neatly away in the open fields not two miles from where he lived, he didn't think it was exactly probable either. Cross was still a few feet ahead of him, not having slowed down once since they'd left the orphanage.

"Where are we going, Professor, if you don't mind me asking?" He jogged up to her and tried to match her pace.

"There's actually someone else we're picking up. Same year as you, lives on a farm. Since the two of you live fairly close together - " Tom suppressed a snort of incredulity, because this was not "fairly close" by any stretch of the phrase - "Headmaster Dippet asked me to get both of you. It's only a few more minutes, now. A short walk is always good for your health."

As it turned out, "a few more minutes" meant "another half hour" in Cross' book. And a "short walk" added up to a total of a good four miles. By the time the quaint, sprawling white house came into view, his throat was parched and his legs aching. He wasn't use to any kind of physical exertion; the furthest he ever walked was out to the bookshop, which couldn't have been more than a quarter of a mile away.

It took all his willpower not to set himself down on the porch the moment he reached it. Cross, unfairly, looked as unruffled as she did before. _Didn't she say she taught_ math _?_ , Tom thought as he tried to catch his breath while looking like he wasn't trying to catch his breath. It was incredibly difficult. If wizarding math involved this amount of physical exercise, Tom wasn't sure that he wanted anything to do with it.

Now, this would've been so much easier if he had been, say, a bird. A bird that could drift along on the wind for all four grueling miles...

The loud clanging of the doorbell nearly made Tom jump in surprise. _Dammit, Tom, pay attention_ , he imagined his inner voice saying. It sounded oddly like himself.

The door, a surprisingly clean white, swung open, revealing a blonde woman wearing a very nice pale blue dress and an apron.

"I'm Professor Cross from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I believe my colleague Horace Slughorn visited your child on her birthday to explain..."

"Oh, yes!" The woman wiped her hands on her apron even though they didn't seem to be dirty at all, then extended it towards her. "I'm Janie Warren, Myrtle's mother. Please come in; she'll be right down. She's been looking forward to this for a very long time, you know."

Cross gave a perfunctory nod and stepped in. After a moment, Tom deemed his legs functional again and followed her.

The inside of the house was as neat and clean as Mrs. Warren was. It wasn't empty and desolate like Tom's room in the orphanage was, and neither did it have the clutter that he saw in the other orphan's rooms. The Warrens were obviously a very loving and tight-knit family, if the many family photos were any indication. There seemed to be one for every Christmas, including ones when the girl - Myrtle - was only an infant. Some of the older photos showed only Mr. and Mrs. Warren in their early twenties. Interspersed throughout the house were fanciful drawings done up in a young child's hand, as well as more skillful sketches in pencil.

They were led to the living room, which offered even more insights into the Warrens' lives: a pair of glasses lying forgotten on the coffee table, a cricket bat leaning on the wall, a lump of rosin next to one of the potted plants.

The couch, which Tom and Cross sat on, was old but thankfully not in disrepair. It creaked softly in protest under their weight.

"Would you like anything to drink?" Mrs. Warren asked as she headed for the kitchen.

"No, thank you. We're only here to pick up your daughter."

"She'll be a few more minutes. She was so excited last night that she couldn't sleep, and when she finally did, she kept right on sleeping through her alarm." Mrs. Warren reentered the living room. "Are you sure you wouldn't like anything?"

"It's fine."

Mrs. Warren sat down on the couch and studied Tom.

"Are you a student as well?"

Tom put on his most charming smile. He feared it would come out as a grimace and hoped that his naturally angelic face would alleviate the worst of it. "Yes, I'm just starting. I only found out about the magical world about half a year ago, on my birthday, too - I think it's all very exciting."

Cross' look, if Tom was correct, said exactly what she thought he was full of. And Tom was usually correct. This didn't bode well.

Tom forced himself to keep smiling at Mrs. Warren, though he didn't feel the joy it suggested. Having Dumbledore wary of him was enough; he didn't need someone else on his case. He knew from experience that once adults had it in their heads that he was trouble, they would start blaming everything on him. Apparently, he would have to act more polite, more courteous. It was, of course, possible that Dumbledore had warned Cross about his behavior before she came to meet him; but that would be even worse, since it meant that Dumbledore had no compunctions about coloring other teacher's opinions of him.

If he was kept on a short leash, he wouldn't be able to read and learn about everything he wanted to, since he planned on learning some things that common sense told him were probably illegal.

"Well, we think it's very exciting too. Harold - my husband - he'd be here, too, but his mother got sick and she lives by herself nowadays, so he's gone down to bring her some soup..."

Mrs. Warren prattled on and on about the most trivial things. She didn't seem to mind carrying the conversation by herself, nor did she notice that she it was more a monologue than a dialogue. Tom found himself wondering just how tardy this Myrtle girl could possibly make them, and he imagined every rustle and thump he heard coming from down the hall to be the girl tripping and falling and dying from blunt force trauma. But no; that would just mean that they had to postpone the shopping trip until some other day when there wasn't a dead girl to take care of.

Or, considering the irritated expression that the professor had adopted, maybe she'd just write it off as a fortunate case of natural selection and take Tom to do his shopping anyway.

When Mrs. Warren looked set to pull out Myrtle's baby photos and maybe welcome both Tom and Cross as honorary family members, the girl herself finally showed. She was a mess of untamed brown hair, sloppy clothing, and awkwardly large glasses.

"Right," Cross said, standing. "We haven't much time - I'm afraid I arrived a bit behind schedule - " That was an obvious lie, but Tom supposed that she couldn't very well say that Myrtle was an inconsiderate mess who couldn't be on time if she tried - "So we have to leave right away."

"Oh! Myrtle - your cookies - " Mrs. Warren rushed off to the kitchen. Cross looked ready to leave without Myrtle, manners be damned. Thankfully, Mrs. Warren returned before Cross said anything, handing a little tin box to Myrtle. "Have fun, now!" She sounded sincere, unlike the matron.

"Take my hand. We'll be traveling by apparition - basically teleportation." She extended a hand to each of them. Tom, to his disappointment, got her right hand, which was unadorned by jewelry. "Hold on now - this might be a bit uncomfortable - "

Cross was prone to understatement. It was more than just a bit uncomfortable; in fact, it was more than just plain uncomfortable. It felt like he was traveling very quickly and very slowly at once. Or, more accurately, like he was trying to travel very quickly but was being stopped by the very stubborn rubber tube he was inside of. _If this is what apparition feels like, I don't think I want to learn it,_ he thought. Just when he thought he might run out of breath for the second time that day, they popped out in a busy street in downtown London. None of the people around them seemed to have noticed three people step out of the middle of nowhere.

Neither did they seem to notice or care that one of those people was determinedly hacking up a lung.

"This way, Tom, Myrtle." Cross held open the door to a seedy little pub in front of them. Tom took one look at Myrtle, who hadn't even bothered to cover her mouth as she coughed, and decided that he'd rather be inside than outside, even if "inside" happened to be smoky and loud and stinking of cigarette smoke.

The place was dark and crowded, but overall it was much cleaner than Tom had expected. The clientele ranged from a large redheaded family of eight crowded around the hearth to a lone, cloaked figure leaning over his cup, which was stirring itself. Tom stared a bit, trying to take it all in. There was no waitress - cups and plates floated to and fro on their own volition, dirty ones neatly washing themselves in the sink. There was a loud crash as the youngest of the redheaded family knocked a glass off the table, and Tom waited for a mop to come flying along, but with a wave of the wand, the mother not only repaired the glass and set it neatly in front of her but also vanished the drink which was seeping through the floorboards.

"Welcome to the wizarding world," Cross said dryly from behind him.

It was then that he noticed Myrtle standing next to him in a similar state of awe. He found that he wasn't sorry for his moment of inattention; the scene in front of him was astonishing enough that he thought he deserved it.

Nevertheless, he tore his eyes away and looked back at Cross. "Are we having lunch here?"

"Merlin, no." She shook Myrtle's arm to get her attention, then led them into a smaller room in the back of the pub.

The din faded, more so than it really should have. If Tom looked carefully, he could see a faint shimmer on the edges of the doorway - a spell of some sort, he would guess, that muted sound. The wall across from the doorway was made of solid brick.

"Now, watch carefully."

She pulled out a stick of wood - a wand, Tom thought - and tapped it against the bricks in a careful pattern which Tom took care to memorize. When she was done, the bricks began to pull away, as if they were curtains sweeping aside to reveal the performer.

And what a performer it was. If the magical pub behind them had been astonishing, the street behind it beyond words. Here, displays vied for attention, flashing in various colors and and drawing customers in with its ostentation. It reminded Tom of the market he'd visited with the orphanage last year; but there, the goods had been mostly mundane, pretty but nothing out of the ordinary. It was not his nature to be drawn in by tacky sales tricks, but now, Tom wasn't even sure what he wanted to look at first. He knew that he was in danger of dropping his jaw as Myrtle had done beside him, but again, he couldn't help it.

"Didn't you gawk enough before?" Cross asked, pushing past them. "Come on, I said we wouldn't be more than two hours."

The first place they went was the bank, which was run by goblins, where Myrtle exchanged the money she had brought with her for shiny little coins called galleons and sickles. Cross explained that Gringotts was the main wizarding bank in England and run mainly by goblins. "They'll take every advantage they can with you, so you have to watch out for them. Always look for the fine print. That being said, if you respect them, they'll respect you, and as long as you don't do anything to ruin that respect, they're very trustworthy."

There was a line, but each transaction was very quick, since goblins didn't bother with social niceties like hellos and how are yous. Tom found himself very glad for it, since he'd never liked them himself.

When they were done, they stepped back outside onto the busy street, and Cross asked, "Did either of you bring your supply lists with you?"

"Oh, no..." Myrtle was patting herself all over, but her dress had no pockets, and all that her little purse contained were coins. "I must have forgotten it."

"I've got one," Tom offered. It was in his pants pocket, folded up neatly into a rectangle.

"Well, since you're the one who's got it, you get to pick first. Where do you want to go?"

The supply list was quite long. He needed a few sets of robes and other wardrobe items, a small library of books, cauldrons, potions ingredients, astronomical instruments, quills, ink... But it was one item that caught his eye.

"I think I'd like to get a wand first," he said. "If that's not too much trouble."

Cross smirked. "That's what I thought - that's the one most students go for first."

It made sense, of course. To children who had never before seen magic, real magic, this entire world would be a novelty. And there was one item which everyone in this world had, and by most people's logic, the possession of said item would be an automatic pass into the world.

That item would, of course, be a wand.

* * *

 **Notes:**

1\. I'm stupid and I forgot that Wool's Orphanage is, in fact, in London. (Now Dante's chapter makes so much more sense.) So that the story makes sense, I have added a few paragraphs to the beginning of Chapter 1, Part I, and altered a few sentences in the rest of the chapter. None of the events have changed.

If you don't want to go back to read it, the new story is that Tom was originally dropped off in an orphanage in the small town he is now in by Merope, but was kicked out/transferred to one in London at the age of about five (before the start of this story in the Prelude). The one he returns to now is the original orphanage.

I apologize for screwing up canon.


	5. Chapter 2, Part II

**Rating:** T

 **Warnings:** None

 **Relationships:** None

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Eos**

 **Part II**

The wand shop was tucked away from the hubbub of the main street. The sign declared it "Ollivanders Wand Shop: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."

"That's amazing," Myrtle breathed. "It's like a real wizard's home - all mysterious and - and _enigmatic._ " When both of her companions ignored her, she quieted down, but then ran ahead into the shop, unable to contain her enthusiasm.

"Is this the only wand shop in London, sir?" Tom asked, taking advantage of Myrtle's absence. They stopped in front of the door.

"Wandmakers have always been a rare breed, but now more than ever. Ollivanders is recommended by Hogwarts, but there are others. There's one pretty close to here, actually. If you want to go there instead, I'd be happy to take you."

"No, no," Tom said hastily. "It's all right. I'm just curious."

"Of course." Cross gave him an odd little smile and then entered the shop.

There was an old man with a shock of white hair standing among the dusty shelves. Myrtle stood bewildered in front of them as measuring tapes flew around her, measuring everything from the length of her arm (which made sense, Tom supposed) to the length of her nose (which didn't.)

"This one with you, then?" the man asked. Myrtle jumped, and one of the measuring tapes slapped her on the arm as if in rebuke.

"Both Muggle-born, yes." Then, seeing the confused expressions on Tom and Myrtle's faces at the new word, she explained, "'Muggle' is the term used for non-magical people. Although there are a number of terms out there, I suggest you stick with this one; as silly as the word sounds, it's the most politically correct."

There was a prejudice against Muggle-born children, then, prominent enough that Cross had decided to mention it. He would have to be careful with that, since as far as he knew, he was Muggle-born.

Abruptly, the measuring tapes sped away from Myrtle to attack him instead. He stiffened, surprised.

"Ah, yes," the man was saying as he pulled out a box. "Try this one."

Now that Tom could see his face, he realized that the old man actually looked quite young. If not for the hair, he could easily have been in his thirties. Was this a wizard thing?

There was a loud bang, and the man - Ollivanders, probably, going by the sign outside - quickly took the wand from Myrtle's hand, exchanging it for another. "Here, this one."

That one didn't work either.

It wasn't until the fourth try that she found her "match," as Ollivanders called it. "Alder, kneazle whisker, eight inches. Ah... an unusual combination. Seven galleons."

Myrtle paid.

Behind him, Cross coughed and shifted slightly.

"Right," Ollivanders said. "Your turn, then. Come on, don't be shy. Wand arm?"

"I'm right hand dominant." The measuring tapes dropped to the floor, suddenly lifeless, and Tom stepped over them to the counter. Ollivanders scrutinized him, then turned back to his shelves.

"You might be a bit trickier. Here - birch, dragon heartstring - "

Tom waved it. Before he could complete the movement, Ollivanders leapt at him and pulled it out of his hand. "Now, this one - "

Soon, there were boxes and boxes piled up in the corner. He had gone through at least twelve; Myrtle looked awed, Cross merely a bit bored.

"Hawthorn, unicorn hair, ten inches. Reasonably pliant." He felt a warm tingle, and nothing blew up, but Ollivanders snatched it away from him. "Not quite, not quite."

"Perhaps we'd better go to the other shop after all," he said.

"Just try one more, now - yew, phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches. Excellent for defensive..."

There was a red-tinged silver surrounding his wand arm.

"Yes, excellent for defensive magic." Suddenly, Ollivanders seemed very intent on shooing them all out, to the point where he forgot to ask them to pay.

"Your seven galleons, Mr. Ollivander?" Cross said just as Tom had one foot out of the shop.

 _Well, damn_ , he thought. And here he was thinking he could get a free wand. Also... _Ollivander_? What was the "s" in the name for, then? Just to confuse customers? Perhaps the apostrophe had fallen off. Or, more likely, there were multiple Ollivanders, each running their own branch of the store, and this man was just one of many. Still, he felt "Ollivanders'" might have been a tad more logical.

Tom was very glad that he hadn't had to say the man's name at all, even if he was only off by a single letter.

"Where to next, then?" Cross asked. "Actually, why don't you decide, Myrtle - Tom did pick first, after all."

"Um," the girl said. "Uh, let me think about that."

Cross looked like she might regret asking her to choose.

"Er, I think I want to get our clothes next."

"Right then," Cross said, relieved. "Madam Malkin's it is."

When they got there, there was already another student there, an older one with elegantly styled platinum blond hair falling to his shoulders. His new robes, a standard black with intricate silver embroidery, hung in loose folds around him. Scrambling around him, altering the robes, was a squat woman dressed entirely in mauve. Tom hoped her taste in clothing was not reflective of her skill in tailoring.

"I can help one of you right now," a young shop girl said as she came out of a back room. "But the other will have to wait."

"I can go to the bookshop first," Tom offered. He understood the need to dress nicely, but he was much more interested in books right now.

"That's fine," Cross said. "Myrtle, stay here and get your robes. Remember - three sets of plain work robes, a pointed hat, protective gloves, a winter cloak, and two sets of formalwear in any color or style conforming with the dress code. Malkin should be able to help you with that. Stay here if we're not back by the time you're done. Tom, come with me."

Tom had no idea where the bookshop was, so it was probably a good thing that Cross would be accompanying him. However, that also meant that he'd have a chaperone who'd notice if he bought any books of questionable repute. He found had found over the years that usually, there were a few shadier titles lying around, even in a store as large and busy as the one they stopped in front of.

"Flourish and Blotts. This is where most students buy their books, so they always have them already organized by year. There are a few books I want to pick up, so I trust you can find your own way around. Meet me by that plant over there when you're done." With that, she disappeared into the crowd.

 _The teachers are okay with leaving eleven-year-olds around by themselves?_ , Tom thought incredulously. He'd think in a world with magic, there were unlimited ways to kidnap someone. Teleporting - _apparating_ \- off with them, coercing them into walking into a dark alley alone, summoning them... the possibilities were endless. But then, he supposed, there must be some kinds of magical precautions around as well. Perhaps it was impossible to apparate here, or coercion wouldn't work, or there was an anti-summoning charm.

No point in speculating, though. There was a young teenage girl who couldn't have been older than sixteen waiting patiently by a bookshelf labelled "First Years." This must be a summer job, available only during the boom in business before each school year.

He walked up to her.

"First year, then?" she asked when she approached him. She began to pull books off the shelves quickly and efficiently. Considering the number of people in the shop, she must have done this a dozen times this day alone. They were all placed in a basket which must have some kind of spell to make it lighter, because there was no way those books weighed any less than a large rock. "Where's your parents?"

He knew the stigma some people associated with orphans, so he answered, "Buying some books they've wanted to read for a while over there." He indicated a random part of the bookshop.

The shop girl raised her eyebrows. "Arcane Magics and Practices? That's actually... a really boring topic. Most people won't go for that. Ravenclaw, then?"

 _Ravenclaw._ It must be a magical term. In lieu of betraying his ignorance, he shrugged noncommittally and said, "Actually, I'm looking for some other books, too - supplemental reading, you know." Going out on a limb, and a reasonably educated hypothesis, he continued, "My parents didn't tell me much about magic when I was growing up, since my father was Muggle-born."

There was a prejudice against Muggles. However, Gringotts allowed for Muggle-wizarding currency exchange and the line for it had been fairly long, so there must be a considerable number of Muggle-borns in the wizarding world. His father wouldn't stand out as an anomaly.

What he didn't know was how common Muggle-born/wizard relations were. If they were taboo, it could explain why his mother had birthed him alone and left him in an orphanage.

But even if he ousted himself as the result of a taboo relationship, he doubted it would matter too much, since it was unlikely that anyone working a summer job in a bookshop was particularly influential in the wizarding world. Besides, he was actually Muggle-born.

Besides, this gave him the opportunity to find out more on the politics of Muggle-wizarding relations.

"Oh, we've got plenty of books for that. You'd be surprised how many parents - of half-bloods, specifically - want their kids to have a Muggle upbringing. Makes for a more open mind, apparently. Here, take these."

Tom withheld a sigh of relief. Half-bloods were fairly common, then. He accepted the basket, which, true to his theory, weighed as much as a single thin book.

"Just head over there - Michael usually does this - no, wait." She turned towards another pimply teenager who was by the children's section and yelled, "Oi! Nicky! Come watch the First Year section for me."

"Nicky" came over, leaving the toddler in the children's section to chew on the brand new books. "Thank you, Soph, I'd rather deal with bratty First Years than those kids any day. Where are you going?"

"Just going to show him around." She took his shoulder and guided him off before Nicky could reply. In a low voice, she said, "His real name's Copernicus, the poor thing. Surprisingly, not an uncommon name, and not really the worst one out there, either. Really makes you wonder what's going through wizards' heads at times." There was an air of both pity and inappropriate amusement in her tone.

Were odd names a hallmark of wizards, then? It lent credibility to the possibility that Tom really was a half-blood, since Marvolo was hardly a common Muggle name.

"Which reminds me," she continued in a normal voice. "What's your name again?"

"Marvolo," he said. Tom was just so mundane - maybe he could go by Marvolo in the wizarding world.

"Huh. I haven't heard that one for a while. It fell out of use a few hundred years ago, I think. I'm Sophia, by the way, Sophia Carter - I'm Muggle-born, which, thankfully, means that I get a perfectly normal name. But I study magical genealogy in my free time, which is why I know so much about wizarding names - I'm trying to figure out if mixing with Muggles has any effect on magical power, intelligence, and so on."

Tom filed that away for potential analysis later, in conjunction with what he already knew and what he hoped to learn.

They arrived at a section labelled "Introduction to Magic."

"These are the books we generally give to Muggle-borns, just to introduce them. I'd suggest this one - " She pulled out a thick book with a green and yellow cover, titled _Magic and You: A Comprehensive Guide to the Wizarding World for the Muggle-born_ \- "It's really quite good; it's the one I first read, but that was like five editions ago. Now, as for Hogwarts, there's this - " This one was _Hogwarts, A History_ \- "It reads as a textbook-type history book, but it's fascinating once you actually get into it. It tells you about the Sorting and everything, so you won't get misled by all the silly rumors flying around."

"Do you have anything on the government, politics, culture?" Tom asked as he slipped the books into his basket, thankful for the spell.

She raised a single eyebrow and said something that sounded like, "Maybe slithering." Tom resolved to read these books as soon as possible. It wouldn't do for him to run around not understanding half the words these people used.

She brought him to another section not too far off labeled "Government and Politics."

"I was never very interested in politics, so I can't really recommend any books for you. One that some customers like is this one over here, _Wizarding Britain in the Twentieth Century_. But the number of people who'll read something this dry are few and far in between, so you'll have to look through this yourself, or ask a senior staff member. Books on culture are just over there." She pointed to a shelf not too far down from them. "I'm actually stationed with the First Year section, so I've got to go now."

"Thank you," Tom murmured, already perusing the titles on the shelf.

"Right. I'll see you around then - I'm a sixth year at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw - say hi if you see me, yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

Apparently deeming communication a lost cause, Sophia left him there to return to her section. In the meantime, Tom continued looking through the books, reading their summaries and leafing through the chapters. He wasn't sure yet which books were best, but he was able to rule out a few that were too biased, or whose authors couldn't seem to write for the life of them.

"You know, if you wanted extra books, you could've told me," someone said from behind him.

Tom forced himself not to jump in surprise and turned slowly around to face Cross, who had her arms folded but looked more amused than anything.

"Put that crap down. Lockhart may be an entertaining writer but he couldn't tell the Minister from a flobberworm. Not that I blame him, though, it's not a hard mistake to make."

He slid the book, written by a Gideon Lockhart, back onto the shelf. And he had thought that it looked so very promising, too.

"What you want are these - Javier Valencia, excellent writer, and he's Spanish, so he's got none of the biases most English wizards have." Several heavy tomes were dumped into his arms. "And," she added, "He's a close friend of mine, too."

It turned out that this Valencia wrote nonfiction across all topics, so he snagged a few of his books on pureblood culture and history, as well as one titled _The Nonmagical Controversy: Wizarding-Muggle Relations after Salazar and Godric_ , also written by Valencia.

His total was something like five hundred galleons all told, but Cross paid for it all and then they were back to Madam Malkin's again.

Myrtle was sitting in a chair in the corner, reading what looked to be a trashy wizarding magazine and munching on her cookies. When the bell on the door rang to announce their arrival, she looked up and asked, "Don't you need to eat lunch?"

The expression on Cross' face suggested that she had forgotten. Truth be told, Tom had too. "Well, we're running a bit late right now - it's already been an hour and a half. How about this - Tom, you stay here and get your robes. Myrtle, I'll take you to the bookstore, and then I'll go out to buy the rest of your equipment while you're there. We can have lunch afterwards."

Tom's stomach was protesting, as he hadn't eaten since breakfast just before five this morning, but he nodded his assent.

"Right. Here's twenty galleons, should be enough. Come on, Myrtle."

Tom was left alone in the shop, with no sign of Malkin anywhere.

"Hello?" he called. There was a thump and a string of curses, and then Malkin appeared from behind some curtains.

"Oh, right," she said. "There were two of you. Over there, then, up you get!" She indicated a little stool in front of some mirrors. As soon as Tom stepped onto it, he was draped in soft black cloth, which was far more comfortable than the clothing he usually owned.

And he wouldn't have to pay a cent for this, too, since the school was paying for him.

He stood there, staring at his own reflection, wondering if there was something he could do. He felt useless standing there and doing nothing, but he couldn't move without feeling the cold metal of the pins against him, so he just stood there and thought about various trivialities instead.

She was poking her needles at him as he was modeling his formalwear when he heard the bell jangle again, and in the mirror, he saw a black-haired boy about the same age as him enter the shop.

"Just a moment, please," Malkin muttered through her mouth full of pins.

The boy approached the two of them, then looked at Tom in the mirror. "First year, too?" he asked.

"Yes," Tom said shortly, unsure of what else he could say.

"Alphard Black. Probably going to be a Slytherin, given my background, but I think I could be the first Ravenclaw since Columba."

There were those words again. _Ravenclaw_ he recognized, and he guessed that Sophia must have said _Slytherin_ , not _slithering_ like he'd originally thought. But since he'd had no chance to go through his books, he still had no idea what they meant. They appeared to be a form of categorization which they would be sorted into a third party. Perhaps related to the sorting Sophia had mentioned.

"I'm not sure myself," he said. What was it Sophia had said? _Maybe Slytherin._ "But I think I might go for Slytherin."

"Sorry, what was your name?"

Tom wondered what he should say. Some of the other children in the orphanage went by their middle name if they didn't like their first, but he'd always went with Tom. Marvolo might not be as common as Tom, but it didn't sound much better, either. Well, whatever. At least he wasn't named Copernicus. New world, new identity.

"Marvolo," he said. "Marvolo Riddle."

"Oh. You're a half-blood then." His nose was slightly wrinkled, but it didn't seem intentional. "That's fine, I guess. The supremacist Slytherins won't give you too much trouble for it, as long as you're not Muggle-born. Your mother must have been Slytherin, too - no one but the Slytherins have used that name before. That should help."

Tom - or Marvolo, now, he supposed - felt as though he may have committed some sort of a faux pas, but to his consternation, couldn't figure out what it was.

"I mean, I'm not one of those supremacists, not really, so you're safe with me - in fact, I'm trying to get an apprenticeship into the Society, so I really can't be so prejudiced..." He had a slightly lost look on his face.

"Of course," Tom - Marvolo - said, and resisted the urge to add an awkward "Erm..." It simply wouldn't be proper. Then he forced himself to add, "Thank you for warning me. I don't know much about the wizarding world, you see."

"Oh! One of those half-bloods, then. Don't worry about it, I can - "

"You're done, dear," Malkin said, interrupting Black. "Here's your robes - " She waved her wand, and the robes vanished off him and reappeared neatly folded on a nearby counter, along with a hat, some very nice gloves, his work robes, and his cloak. "That's seventeen galleons, now - thank you. Come here, Alphard, and stop talking nonsense."

Alphard looked mortally offended. "There's more than enough evidence that the Society is real! I don't know why nobody else sees it - "

"It's just a legend, dear. Even if there was one, it was long ago, and it doesn't exist anymore..."

Tom left the two to argue, wondering what this "Society" was. It was clearly a wizarding thing, one left mostly in legend. But was it legend? This was the second time he'd heard of it, and Franz from the market had seemed so sure of its existence. It made Tom think that it might be more real than Malkin believed it to be.

Then, he remembered that he was now Marvolo, _Marvolo_ , dammit, and he needed to start calling himself that, or he'd forget to answer to the name once school started.

He grabbed his clothing and slipped out of the store. Coincidentally, Cross and Myrtle were just returning.

"You're done, then?" she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "Here's the rest of your supplies. I bought you both trunks, too - you can put all your shopping in here - yeah, just put it in - and you can shrink it and just slip it in your pocket."

"Are we getting lunch now?" Myrtle piped up. "I'm getting a bit peckish myself."

"There's a very nice restaurant just down the street, but don't tell anyone I brought you there. It's got a bit of a reputation."

The very nice restaurant was called _La brújula d_ _orada_ and was located at the mouth of a particularly shady offshoot from Diagon Alley. A sign at corner of the street declared it Knockturn Alley, and its buildings were closely set together, creating a very claustrophobic feeling. There seemed to be a fog set over the entire street that Marvolo had seen no sign of in Diagon; it turned Knockturn's street vendors and customers into sinister shadows lurking among the rickety buildings. The front of the restaurant they arrived at was elegant and classy, in stark contrast with Knockturn behind it. Marvolo could see why it would have a "reputation."

Myrtle shuddered. "This place scares me."

 _Wimp_ , Marvolo thought maturely, but Knockturn did have a particular air around it.

Lunch was an incredibly quick affair, since the service was efficient and the food quickly prepared. There must be some kind of magic involved. Myrtle talked little, for which Marvolo was very thankful. For the most part, he ignored his companions and studied the other people, who were quiet and kept to themselves. None of them seemed like criminals who would frequent a place like Knockturn Alley, so he wondered why the restaurant was located in such a place. Surely, it would have more customers if it were located elsewhere?

"The clientele here are usually very wealthy and influential because they have the right connections. They come here to meet important contacts who may not be quiet as wealthy, or as reputable," Cross murmured over her fairy wine. "However, there's nothing to worry about, since none of these contacts are ever the crazed dark wizards the general public imagines them to be."

Marvolo hummed and took another sip of his soup.

Myrtle was completely oblivious to the interaction.

When they were done, they went back to Myrtle's house by apparition, which left Marvolo dizzy and wishing he hadn't had quite so much for lunch, since it felt as though it was going to come right back up again. This time, he was quite glad for the walk back, as it cleared his mind and settled his stomach.

The matron had given him a suspicious look, but Cross assured her that he had been a perfect angel. As soon as he could, he locked himself in his room to start in on his books.

That night, he fell asleep with one of Valencia's books in hand, feeling as content as he had ever been.

* * *

 **Notes:**

2\. I know nothing about HP wand lore.

3\. According to the HP wiki, kneazle whisker is used as a wand core, but is very weak.

4\. Apologies to anyone actually named Copernicus. I mean no offense. Honestly, I'd be elated if my name were Copernicus. Unfortunately, it's not.

5\. Okay, so I feel like calling Tom Marvolo is the equivalent of renaming Harry something really weird and exotic like Antinous or something (that was a totally random name, no offense to anyone who really has renamed him Antinous.) But it kind of happened by accident, and now I'm wondering why Tom never renamed himself Marvolo. If there was a reason, I've forgotten what it was.

Also, I may slip up and call him Tom instead of Marvolo. I apologize in advance for that.

6\. "La brújula dorada" translates to "the golden compass" in Spanish. It is a completely arbitrary name and is not meant as a reference or as a symbol of anything.

7\. I know I've been leaving off on the "Voldemort is Fawkes" element a bit, which is Not Good since it's supposed to be a big part of this fic. But after this will be a train/Sorting scene, and from there, the plot will pick up a bit more with the Fawkes stuff, and there will be a subplot with the Society and Grindelwald to make things more interesting.

In about two or three chapters, Marvolo will start being awesome and OP.

8\. No thanks to my real life friend who beta-ed the first half like she was supposed to and then forgot that she was supposed to be looking at it critically for the second half.

All errors in the second half are her fault. Blame her, not me.

(I'm kidding, mostly.)


	6. Chapter 3

**Rating:** T

 **Warnings:** None

 **Relationships:** None

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Compital**

Marvolo had thought that the days would pass slowly, that each day would feel like just another wasted in the mundane Muggle world. But time flew by as he went through his books in record speed. Wizards were fascinating - they were just like Muggles, with their inflated sense of superiority and petty squabbles and penchant for violent arguments. But they had the power to back up their superior attitudes, to quickly turn petty squabbles into murder, to bring war to an entirely new level.

The thing was, Marvolo may have been good at large shows of power - setting things on fire, for instance - but he was much more inclined towards subtlety. Muggle bombs were as far from subtle as it got, but magic - magic had so much more potential. Large-scale destruction with none of the explosions.

But for all that potential, their government and society were stuck in the Middle Ages.

When he was done with his extra reading, he started in on the textbooks. They were simple introductions to each subject, and he found himself quickly bored. Nevertheless, he studiously read each monotonous paragraph, making sure he understood the concepts they taught.

Before he knew it, it was September 1st. At first, he hadn't been sure how he would get to King's Cross, where he'd catch the train to Hogwarts. Neither did he expect any Muggle information kiosk to know where he could find a Platform 9 3/4. But everything worked out in his favor.

It went like this: quite simply, the matron's sister, a seamstress in London, had come down with a nasty illness. The matron, as the loving sibling she was, had decided to go down to take care of her. This was on August 29th. Marvolo had heard the matron telling the cook about it while he was sneaking off with his dinner. The next day, as the matron had been preparing to leave, he had casually mentioned that he would need to be in London by the first of September. His trunk had already been packed and stood ready next to him. With no lack of reluctance, she had taken him with her onto the train to London.

He had spent two nights on the sick sister's living room floor, warmed only by a few woolen blankets. On the morning of September 1st, he had been unceremoniously dumped onto Platform 10, where he had seen a couple of robed figures casually walk through a wall and had followed them, wand in his pocket and trunk in tow behind him.

That was how he found himself on a train platform that didn't exist in a city miles away without a lick of effort or too much trouble.

The first order of business was to shrink the trunk; he hadn't done so before because it would've been suspicious for him to leave for a boarding school with nothing but the clothes on his back. Then, he checked the large clock hanging over the platform; there was still a good hour before the train departed. That was no surprise, as the platform was empty, save for the family he had followed through the barrier and a few others. The train was already there, waiting, its doors open to early arrivals. Since Marvolo had no friends or family to say goodbye to, there was no point in hanging around; he immediately boarded the train.

The inside of the train was as empty as the outside; all he heard was the rumbling of the train beneath his feet. Compartment doors hung open, inviting occupants. The compartments were identical, he discovered, with the exception of the Prefect's compartment, which had a small plaque on the door labeling it as such and was much larger.

In the end, he decided that he would take a compartment at the end of the train; there were only so many entrances to the train, and none were near the end. Sitting away from one of those entrances would ensure that few, if any, other students would try to take the compartment, and late students wouldn't be cramming into his because the rest were full.

He shut the compartment door carefully behind him, noting how all outside noise was now muffled. Just like in the back of that pub - the Leaky Cauldron, he now knew, because it had been in the Muggle-born's guide, touted as a generally non-discriminatory establishment and the most used gateway into Diagon. The silencing charm would be helpful later, but right now, there was little noise, and it was rather stuffy in the compartment, so he opened the door again and cracked open a window.

He had planned to watch the people coming in and observe their habits, especially how they used magic, but the few people on the platform were just speaking quietly to one another. There was a small group, off to the side, comprised entirely of students, no more than fifteen years old. He wondered why they were here so early, and without their parents - perhaps they'd had to go to work, and had dropped their children off beforehand.

But none of them were using magic, so he turned around and pulled out his trunk, which contained his books. He had read all of them already, a formidable task overcome only by his stalwart determination. But it wouldn't hurt to reread some of the heavier ones - the one on wizarding governments, perhaps, since he was sure he hadn't gotten everything the first time around.

He settled in and soon lost himself in Valencia's concise descriptions and dry humor.

It was only when he heard a sharp rap on the glass of the door that he looked up, startled out of the wonderful world of corruption, mismanagement, and badly worded laws. He was fully prepared to dismiss a timid classmate looking for a new friend, readying a mouth full of sweetness and eyes full of venom, but he recognized the first-year standing there as Alphard Black.

Though he had planned on having the compartment to himself and reading away the entire journey, he now looked forward to talking to Alphard, since this time, he would know what he was talking about. And there was the added bonus of Alphard being a Black.

Before he said a word, Alphard invited himself in, shut the door behind him, and draped himself over the empty bench across from Marvolo. Marvolo was unsure of what to say, but again, Alphard beat him to it.

"No plans for making friends, then? Trying to be the lone wolf? Or just secretly a Ravenclaw?" Alphard raised an eyebrow at the book in his hands. "That would never be my book of choice, funny as Valencia is."

"Hello, Black," Marvolo greeted offhandedly, then shrugged in answer to Alphard's statement. "Growing up, no one around me was ever interested in politics." Not a lie. "As such, I don't know much about them. I felt it was only sensible to read up on them before I joined Slytherin." Because Slytherin was the stronghold for politicians' children, contrary to the belief of idealists who still thought children were sorted by personality.

"With that interest in knowledge, you might well end up in Ravenclaw instead," Alphard observed. "It's Alphard, by the way."

"Marvolo, then."

Alphard wasn't wrong that he had the qualities for Ravenclaw, but Marvolo had his own reasons for believing himself more Slytherin than anything else. However, to share them now would be unwise.

Rather than giving an explicit answer, he shrugged again lightly, neither an affirmation nor a negation.

They lapsed into silence, and Marvolo took the opportunity to return to a particularly confusing explanation of Ministry workings. It wasn't so much a fault of Valencia's for using imprecise wording or writing unreadably long sentences, so much as the fact that half the Ministry simply _made no sense._ At least a half hour must've passed since he'd arrived; in the background, now, students were gossiping with old friends, parents were saying their goodbyes, and the younger children were shrieking with no restraints. Marvolo ignored them, as well as his previous plan of objective observation.

"You don't know anything about the wizarding world, do you?"

Marvolo suppressed a flinch and slowly raised his eyes to meet Alphard's. "What gave it away?"

"You were pretty good, I grant you that. But you hesitated before giving your name as Marvolo. And I'm not saying it's not your name, but it doesn't seem like the one you generally go by. When I first met you, you weren't inclined to give away much information - understandable, of course, if you're the type to do that, but you're much more talkative now, presumably because you've read up on everything. Most people don't read government books for fun. I'd say that maybe your wizarding parent - your mother - died while you were very young, and you were left to grow up with a Muggle: that would explain your name, your lack of knowledge, and the purposefully vague mention of your home life."

Marvolo tiled his head, but said nothing. It was his implicit way of requesting clarification on the last point, and if Alphard was half as smart as he seemed, he would pick up on it.

As expected, he did.

"You said that 'no one around you' was into politics. Most people would say 'my parents,' or 'my father,' even, if you only lived with your father. By being vague, you were able to lie, to some extent, by omission, and lying by omission is not something most people notice. Lying indicates shame, or a wish to hide that parent's existence or heritage. I assume, then, that your father is Muggle. In a house such as Slytherin that mostly consists of prejudiced pureblood families, it would only be logical to hide the fact. Also, the surname you gave me was 'Riddle,' and giving yourself a Muggle surname as you gave yourself a wizarding one would offer you no advantage. It must therefore be your actual surname."

Alphard stared expectantly at Marvolo, expecting confirmation of his deduction.

Reluctantly, he admitted, "That was actually quite clever. I thought I was doing well enough hiding my background." He briefly considered asking that Alphard not repeat anything he had said, but that would allow Alphard to garner an explicit promise of a favor in exchange for the silence. Fortunately, from what he knew of Alphard, he wasn't the type to spread rumors about another just to bring them down. The information was safe in his hands.

At that, Alphard cracked a smile. "Also, you didn't answer to Marvolo, no matter how many times I called you. You need to work on that. That's what gave your name away, and when I started putting everything together."

Marvolo scowled into his book. He really would need to work on that.

"Well, _Marvolo_ , have any questions to ask a pureblooded, educated, overly-cultured wizard?"

He did. He had many questions - questions about his questions, questions that would probably get him thrown into Azkaban just for thinking them.

"Not right now," he answered. "But I'll find you when I do."

The conversation dwindled again. The relative silence they sat in was much easier than it had been before. The silence was as much Marvolo's as it was Alphard's; as loquacious as the other seemed to be, he didn't seem to mind sitting back and observing the world around him, especially the students still on the platform.

After a paragraph, Marvolo found that he couldn't concentrate as well as he could when he was alone, and put the book down, resigning himself to watching the hustle and bustle of children saying goodbye to their parents or greeting friends they hadn't seen all summer. The clock on the platform declared it another fifteen minutes before departure, and the image of those hundreds of children squeezing their way onto the train at the last minute flashed in front of his eyes.

"What's that smile on your face?"

"Sorry?" Marvolo forced himself into an expression of detachment.

Alphard smirked. "Nothing."

Before Marvolo could forcefully ask for clarification, or perhaps start in on a more belligerent silence, someone knocked timidly on the compartment door. Marvolo suppressed the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance; this one was definitely a shy first-year.

"Are you going to let her in?" Alphard asked.

"Not really."

"She seems to know you."

Hearing that, Marvolo finally turned from the window and saw, to his horror, Myrtle beaming at him from the other side of the glass. Quickly, he opened the door and told her, "I'm sitting with Alphard here - he has some friends who will be coming along later. We'd love to have you, but there simply won't be enough room." He opened his eyes wide and lowered his head and added, "I'm sorry - perhaps we can sit together if we're in the same house?"

Because there was no way she was a Slytherin, so that was a mostly empty promise.

"Oh, that's quite all right," she simpered. Inwardly, Marvolo cringed. "I'll see you later, then."

It took all of his willpower not to hex her as she flounced off. As it was, he was unable to stop himself from slamming the door closed.

"Friend of yours?" That insufferable smirk was on his face again.

"I hope not."

"We should be off in about ten minutes. Which means that in about five, Algol's going to show up with his hair uncombed and his tie undone because he woke up about two minutes ago. He'll take up most of the space in this compartment, too, since he's likely going to want to finish packing in here, so you're not really lying to her."

"Algol?"

"Algol Lestrange. Close friend of mine. Has never been late in his life, but only because he considers things like dressing properly to be nonessential. Don't let him fool you; he's far more clever than he lets on."

 _Lestrange._ Another pureblood name, one of some repute. He sounded like a very slovenly character; Marvolo wondered idly why his parents would let him to grow up like that.

True to his word, a boy their age stumbled into the compartment at five minutes to eleven with a bird's nest of brown hair, half his shirt on, a half-shrunken trunk, and a lump of assorted cloths and knick-knacks in his arms. Without so much as a greeting, half the pile was dumped on Alphard and the other half on the floor, the trunk was tossed against the window, and the boy was flopping onto the seat next to Marvolo.

Marvolo had no idea how he felt about this. He thought he might be disgusted, but Alphard had vouched for him, and Alphard was unusually intelligent and mature for someone his age. After a moment, Algol stood up and opened his trunk.

"Be a dear and pass my pants, Alphard?"

"Are these even clean?"

"I think so."

Algol really was trying to pack. In the train compartment. Minutes before departure. Marvolo decided that he felt a scientific sort of curiosity, and his fingers itched to write down his observations. _Minute one. Specimen still has not noticed me. Minute two. Specimen appears to enjoy horrifying Alphard._

There must be some sort of an art to this disarray, but Marvolo couldn't for the life of him see where.

"Now the Venomous Tentacula seeds?"

"These are a Class C non-tradable substance."

"So?"

"Okay, never mind that. _Why?_ "

"Just in case."

 _Specimen habitually ignores laws for frivolous reasons._

Alphard nodded sagely and handed his friend a glass phial.

When the warning for imminent departure was given and the predicted rush for the doors occurred, Algol was still packing. When the train started out of the station, Algol was still packing. And when the conductor came around for the tickets, Algol paused for a moment to hand over a piece of paper that looked like it had been crushed, soaked, straightened out, ironed, and tossed carelessly into a hearty beef stew, where it had been left to marinate for a few days. Somehow, it was still perfectly intact. "I had a few accidents with it," he explained.

The conductor took it delicately between his gloved thumb and forefinger, looking like he wished he'd brought a pair of forceps. So did Marvolo: who knew what kinds of new life could be discovered on there?

Algol finished packing another ten minutes later. It wasn't that he had all that much to be packed; it was just that for someone who was ostensibly a slob, he had very precise specifications of where he wanted what, and how.

Marvolo cleared his throat pointedly as Algol closed his trunk with a satisfied smile and shrunk it.

"Hello," Algol said cheerfully, as if he hadn't spent the past half hour ignoring him. "New friend of Alphard's?"

"It would appear so." Actually, he was unsure whether or not he counted as a "friend." From what he knew of social conventions, they had already progressed beyond "casual acquaintances" to something that could be called "friends," but Marvolo was loath to say so without an explicit agreement on their status first.

"Any friend of Alphard's is a friend of mine. Except that doddering old man. He scares me."

"Oh, he's fine," Alphard dismissed. "Just a bit weird sometimes, is all. He likes me."

Ignoring him, Algol stuck out a hand to Marvolo. "Algol Lestrange. Call me Algol, not Lestrange."

"Marvolo Riddle. Marvolo's fine."

Algol withdrew his hand before Marvolo could take it, and for a moment, Marvolo wondered if perhaps Algol was one of _those_ purebloods who looked down on anyone with a hint of Muggle blood. But it seemed more like he had forgotten that he'd offered his hand in the first place than anything else: there was no hint of disgust as he turned to Alphard and asked, "Half-blood? Where'd you find him?"

"Madam Malkin's. My parents weren't there."

But then Algol inched towards the window, away from Marvolo, and leaned against the glass. He didn't say another word to him.

Marvolo picked up his book, which had been lying abandoned on the bench.

The rest of the ride was passed in even more silence, mostly companionable but occasionally awkward. A woman carting around a multitude of sweets came by, and Algol bought a few, some of which he gave to Alphard, who in turn handed some to Marvolo. Algol didn't comment.

As it went on, Marvolo found himself increasingly unsettled. Was this what purebloods would be like? Would he be alienated in this world, too, for something that was an inherent characteristic for him? In the Muggle world, it had been his magical ability, first discovered by accident and later sharpened into a formidable weapon. Now, was it to be his blood?

He found himself questioning his decision to go to Slytherin.

But no, he couldn't do that - he wouldn't let a few fools like them change his path. He'd force them to like him, and that was that.

"You should get your robes on, Marvolo," Alphard said quietly. "We're about ten minutes away."

He started. He had forgotten that he was wearing only his slacks and threadbare formal shirt. Involuntarily, he glanced at Algol, who sat comfortably in expensive black robes with his legs crossed as he stared unseeingly out the window, just as he had been doing for the past hour or so. The serenity of his expression and the blankness in his eyes were turned away from Marvolo but reflected on the glass. Quickly, Marvolo turned away, taking his robes out from his trunk and slinging them over his outfit, closing it up in the front so that the scruffiness of his shirt was no longer obvious.

"We should probably head out now to avoid the crowds," he said, trying to phrase it as a suggestion but instill the idea as an order. He wasn't sure if he had succeeded, but as he exited the compartment, he heard two sets of footsteps following him.

The other students were still in their compartments, most of them bleary-eyed as they put on their robes, having fallen asleep during the long ride. Only five others - two Ravenclaws and three Slytherins - were waiting at the door.

The door that was the closest exit for at least twenty other compartments.

As they waited there in a silence that was now decidedly awkward, interrupted only by attempts at conversation by one of the Slytherins, Marvolo entertained again the inevitable rush for the doors, this time from the inside out. It may well be even more chaotic.

They made it outside without incident or the injuries Marvolo had expected and were met by a short man holding a very bright lantern. Magical, he realized, because there was no way a normal lantern could shine that brightly.

"First years, follow me. First years, this way!"

They followed him away from the platform, down a tortuous, rocky path, and across a small field with the quiet murmur of the tired students and the crunch of pebbles underfoot the only sounds in the still, chilly, autumn air. Finally, they arrived at a large lake whose surface shimmered black and red under the purple streaks splashed across the sky as if it were a watercolor painting.

"I never understood why first years needed to go in on boats. It's bloody freezing," Alphard complained as he climbed in with Marvolo. "Everyone else just goes up in carriages - why can't we?"

Algol joined them in the same boat, too, despite his apparent reservations about Marvolo. Another boy, lanky and tall and somehow still prepubescent (how tall would he be once he hit puberty and his growth spurt came?) joined them. He was shy: he responded with a squeak when Alphard began talking to him. Alphard didn't mind, and kept going, somehow easing the silence.

So this was what he did, Marvolo realized. He talked so that others didn't have to.

That was useful.

"Now, watch carefully," Alphard was saying in a smooth, low voice. He leaned in closer, and everyone else did too, unconsciously. It felt as though Alphard was sharing some great secret. "Just after we pass this - yeah, right now - look up there, up there - "

Hogwarts Castle. It was beautiful, lit up against the sky like that, all golden light and turrets that reached up high for the sky. It had a sort of majestic grandeur that nothing else he'd seen in the wizarding world had had: _this was power_ , he thought. _To take this would be the ultimate triumph._

Perhaps he should aim to become Headmaster.

The boats glided as one into a little harbor against the castle and they were brought through the giant wooden doors to the entrance hall, at the end of which were another set of giant doors.

"Wait here," the teacher said, and disappeared.

Marvolo had expected it, of course - according to Valencia, they did this every year. (How Valencia knew was beyond him, since everything to do with the Sorting seemed a very jealously guarded secret. Valencia hadn't even attended Hogwarts, for goodness' sake. He'd gone to Beauxbâtons in France.)

The rest of the students began to fidget, some in anticipation, some of anxiety. Myrtle looked very green with the latter and thankfully stood swaying in her place far, far away from him.

"My parents told me that we have to fight a troll," Alphard proclaimed loudly. That broke the silence: in place of the apprehension was now outright panic - "I don't know any spells!" - "I knew I should've brought the sword... my parents said I wouldn't need it, oh God..." - "I'm prepared, of course. I'll just strike it between the eyes with a _bomberda maxima_."

There were several things wrong with that last one. Firstly, the weak point of _dragons_ was between the eyes: trolls' skin was so thick that they didn't really have a weak point at all. Secondly, it was _bombarda,_ not _bomberda_. And lastly, a _bombarda maxima_ would do little against the troll, since that thick skin was reinforced with a nice bit of spell resistance.

Fortunately for that last clueless student, even wizards had more common sense than to stick an untrained child in front of a dangerously large and stupid creature like the troll.

Before it could get out of hand, the doors opened and Dumbledore appeared, now wearing robes instead of a suit, though they were still the same awful plum velvet.

"Hello, first-years," he said over the clamor of the students, and they all quieted down. His voice carried oddly; another spell, perhaps? "In a few moments, you will be Sorted. Do not become too worried over that: there are a lot of rumors flying around, as there are every year, about what you will have to do, but you will see that it is quite simple. For those of you who don't know, there are four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each house is defined by a particular set of qualities."

There was an audible gulp from Marvolo's left side, and everyone turned to look at the boy, who cowered.

"Your house will be your family in your time here at Hogwarts," he continued, drawing attention away from the unfortunate student. "You will live with them, eat with them, attend classes with them. This is where you will find your lifelong friends." Twinkling blue eye swept over the crowd.

In his head, Marvolo added darkly, _And where you will find your enemies._

"Now, with that said, I wish you all the best of luck. Please follow me." He turned and pushed his way back into through the doors, this time holding them open as the students filed through.

Reading about the Great Hall was nothing compared to actually seeing it. Around him, he heard the oohs and ahs of the students who had never seen such opulence, but he forcibly kept his mouth shut and his expression unchanging and noted that neither Alphard nor Algol next to him seemed particularly awed.

He did notice, where the others did not, the Sorting Hat, which was tattered and dirty and all around not the kind of hat he'd want to ever touch his head, even though he'd grown up poor. No one could blame him; everyone who had gone through this school had had to put it on: that was some ten centuries of head lice. Or, considering the bathing habits during first few centuries since the school's founding, perhaps there was something closer to fifteen centuries' worth of head lice.

He shuddered and made no attempt to hide it.

In the time he had taken to be utterly horrified, the Hat had begun singing - _something_. Algol groaned quietly beside him. The tune was unremarkable and the words a repetition of what he'd already read in _Hogwarts, a History_ , so he paid little attention. Instead, he took the chance to scan the Hall, his gaze lingering on the pale white ghosts floating around the room. It was then that he noticed that other than the first years, no one seemed to be paying much attention to the Hat at all.

Unsurprising, since they probably sat through this every year. It had to get old at some point.

When he turned his attention back to the Hat, it was closing up the song to the enthusiastic applause of the first years. Then Dumbledore pulled out a piece of parchment and announced, "Avery, Maes."

A dark-haired boy, back straight, proud but not boastful, glided to the front and had the Hat placed on his head. After a moment -

"Slytherin!"

Next was "Black, Alphard," and he watched as his new friend sat there for a moment, face contorting as if he were debating with the Hat, and then he was going to "Slytherin!" as well.

The other children were of little interest to him; he didn't hear a pureblood name again until "Lestrange, Algol," who went, predictably, to Slytherin.

Finally, it was his turn. When he heard "Riddle, Tom," he realized that he had never requested that he be called by his middle name instead. Now, the entire school would know his first name. He opened and closed his hands, finding them unexpectedly overheated and sticky, and held himself tall as he lumbered over to the Hat. At least, it felt like he was lumbering; he could only hope that that wasn't what it actually looked like from the outside.

The Hat was dropped onto his head.

 _Ah_ , he heard a voice say. Probably the Hat. _Ah, I see. An interesting one, you are. Stubborn enough for Gryffindor, smart enough for Ravenclaw, far too ambitious for Slytherin. Oh, dear._

 _I'd like to be in Slytherin._ Then, _Wait_ , _what about Hufflepuff? Not that I want to go to Hufflepuff_ , he thought, backtracking hastily.

 _You'd eat them alive_ , and he felt the Hat chuckle, a resonant, darkly amused sound that rung in his skull.

 _Slytherin_ , he thought again.

 _No. Ravenclaw, I think. You don't quite have the nobility of a Gryffindor, and you are ambitious enough that Slytherin would do little for you. Ravenclaw would be the best path for you._

 _Ravenclaws are smart, yes. But they study for the sake of studying; I_ _don't_. _I study so I can further my own place in life. That's Slytherin._

 _Slytherin will lead you to ruin, but Ravenclaw - it will help you achieve so much more, become so much better -_

He narrowed his eyes and glared at the inside of the Hat. Since his eyes were hidden, no one would see it. _I_ am _Slytherin, and you know it. You cannot mis-Sort me._

The Hat sighed, resigned. Marvolo was frankly surprised that it had given up so quickly. _All right. You are not wrong; you_ are _Slytherin. And so it shall be -_ _you will be -_

"Slytherin!"

The ease with which the Hat had given up was suspicious, and he would have to watch that. It had seen everything in his head and obviously tried to hinder him by putting him in Ravenclaw, away from what he needed. But ultimately, it had given in with little argument. Valencia had written that there was a confidentiality clause in the Hat's contract, but Marvolo resolved to find the exact wording of it and search for loopholes.

But in the meantime, he would enjoy his victory.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his head and smirked as he strode to the Slytherin table.

* * *

 **Notes:**

1\. Short chapter! Finally!

2\. My real life friend is obsessing over her cats again and I have no idea what Dante's even doing, so this chapter is unbetad. Sorry.

3\. School starts in about a week, which means that I will have less time to write. Conversely, that means Dante will have more time, at least according to her.

It also means I will be able to talk to her in person and therefore force her into writing, as much as anyone can force her to do anything, anyway.

This will still be updated once a month _at least_ , if not twice a month, which is what I'm going for.


End file.
